MOON-FAG  E 


AND    OTHER    STORIE 


BY 


JACK    LONDON 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD,"   "PEOPLE 
OF  THE  ABYSS,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


gotfc 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 

1906 
All  rights  reserved 


/ 

. 


COPYRIGHT,  1906, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1906. 


Nottooofc 

J.  8.  Cashing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


/   ^ 

net? 


MOON-FACE 
AND    OTHER    STORIES 


WORKS   OF  JACK   LONDON 

* 

THE  GAME 
THE  SEA-WOLF 
THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD 
THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  FROST 
PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 
THE  FAITH  OF  MEN  AND  OTHER  STORIES 
WAR  OF  THE  CLASSES 
THE  KEMPTON-WACE  LETTERS 
TALES  OF  THE  FISH  PATROL 
MOON-FACE  AND  OTHER  STORIES 
WHITE  FANG 


PUBLISHED   BY 

THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 


Contents 

PAGE 

Moon-Face         .....••  * 

The  Leopard  Man's  Story     .  .  .        15 

Local  Color        ....  .  .        25 

Amateur  Night  ....  -57 

The  Minions  of  Midas  .          .          .  •  .87 

The  Shadow  and  the  Flash    .          .  .      1 1 5 

All  Gold  Canyon         ....  .      147 

Planchette 189 


MOON-FACE 


MOON-FACE* 

JOHN  CLAVERHOUSE  was  a  moon-faced 
man.  You  know  the  kind,  cheek-bones  wide 
apart,  chin  and  forehead  melting  into  the 
cheeks  to  complete  the  perfect  round,  and  the 
nose,  broad  and  pudgy,  equidistant  from  the  cir 
cumference,  flattened  against  the  very  centre  of  the 
face  like  a  dough-ball  upon  the  ceiling.  J  Perhaps 
that  is  why  I  hated  him,  for  truly  he  mid  become 
an  offence  to  my  eyes,  and  I  believed  the  earth 
to  be  cumbered  with  his  presence.  Perhaps  my 
mother  may  have  been  superstitious  of  the  moon 
and  looked  upon  it  over  the  wrong  shoulder  at  the 
wrong  time. 

,H[   hated   John  Claverhouse. 


Not  that  he  had  done  me  what  society  would  con 
sider  a  wrong  or  an  ill  turn.  Far  from  it.  The 
evil  was  of  a  deeper,  subtler  sort;  so  elusive,  so 
intangible,  as  to  defy  clear,  definite  analysis  in 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY  THE  ARGONAUT  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 
3 


4  MOON-FACE 

words.  We  all  experience  such  things  at  some 
period  in  our  lives.  For  the  first  time  we  see  a 
certain  individual,  one  who  the  very  instant  be 
fore  we  did  not  dream  existed;  and  yet,  at  the 
first  moment  of  meeting,  we  say :  "  I  do  not  like  that 
man."  Why  do  we  not  like  him  ?  Ah,  we  do  not 
know  why;  we  know  only  that  we  do  not.  We 
have  taken  a  dislike,  that  is  all.  And  so  I  with  John 
Claverhouse. 

What  right  had  such  a  man  to  be  happy  ?  Yet 
he  was  an  optimist.  He  was  always  gleeful  and 
laughing.  All  things  were  always  all  right,  curse 
him  !  Ah  !  how  it  grated  on  my  soul  that  he  should 
be  so  happy !  Other  men  could  laugh,  and  it  did 
not  bother  me.  I  even  used  to  laugh  myself  — 
before  I  met  John  Claverhouse. 

But  his  laugh !  It  irritated  me,  maddened  me, 
as  nothing  else  under  the  sun  could  irritate  or 
madden  me.  It  haunted  me,  gripped  hold  of  me, 
and  would  not  let  me  goTj  It  was  a  huge,  Gargan 
tuan  laugh.  Waking  or  sleeping  it  was  always  with 
me,  whirring  and  jarring  across  my  heart-strings 
like  an  enormous  rasp.  At  break  of  day 
it  came  whooping  across  the  fields  to  spoil  my 


MOON-FACE  5 

pleasant  morning  revery.  Under  the  aching  noon 
day  glare,  when  the  green  things  drooped  and 
the  birds  withdrew  to  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and 
all  nature  drowsed,  his  great  "Ha!  ha!"  and  "Ho! 
ho!"  rose  up  to  the  sky  and  challenged  the  sun. 
And  at  black  midnight,  from  the  lonely  cross-roads 
where  he  turned  from  town  into  his  own  place,  came 
his  plaguey  cachinnations  to  rouse  me  from  my  sleep 
and  make  me  writhe  and  clench  my  nails  into  my 
palms. 

[I  went  forth  privily  in  the  night-time,  and  turned 
his  cattle  into  his  fields,  and  in  the  morning  heard 
his  whooping  laugh  as  he  drove  them  out  again. 
"It  is  nothing,"  he  said;  "the  poor,  dumb  beasties 
are  not  to  be  blamed  for  straying  into  fatter  pas 


tures." 


He  had  a  dog  he  called  "Mars,"  a  big,  splendid 
brute,  part  deer-hound  and  part  blood-hound,  and 
resembling  both.  Mars  was  a  great  delight  to  him, 
and  they  were  always  together.  But  I  bided  my 
time,  and  one  day,  when  opportunity  was  ripe,  lured 
the  animal  away  and  settled  for  him  with  strychnine 
and  beefsteak.  It  made  positively  no  impression  on 
John  Claverhouse.  His  laugh  was  as  hearty  and 


6  MOON-FACE 

frequent  as  ever,  and  his  face  as  much  like  the  full 
moon    as    it   always   had   been. 

Then  I  set  fire  to  his  haystacks  and  his  barn. 
But  the  next  morning,  being  Sunday,  he  went  forth 
blithe  and  cheerful. 

"Where  are  you  going  ?"  I  asked  him,  as  he  went 
by  the  cross-roads. 

"Trout,"  he  said,  and  his  face  beamed  like  a  full 
moon.  "I  just  dote  on  trout."  J 

Was  there  ever  such  an  impossible  man !  His 
whole  harvest  had  gone  up  in  his  haystacks  and 
barn.  It  was  uninsured,  I  knew.  And  yet,  in  the 
face  of  famine  and  the  rigorous  winter,  he  went  out 
gayly  in  quest  of  a  mess  of  trout,  forsooth,  because 
he  "doted"  on  them!  Had  gloom  but  rested,  no 
matter  how  lightly,  on  his  brow,  or  had  his  bovine 
countenance  grown  long  and  serious  and  less  like 
the  moon,  or  had  he  removed  that  smile  but  once 
from  off  his  face,  I  am  sure  I  could  have  forgiven 
him  for  existing.  But  no,  he  grew  only  more  cheer- 
ful^under  misfortune. 

/ 1  insulted  him.     He  looked  at  me  in  slow  and 
smiling  surprise. 

"I   fight  you?    Why?"   he   asked  slowly.     And 


MOON-FACE  7 

then  he  laughed.  "You  are  so  funny!  Ho!  ho! 
You'll  be  the  death  of  me  !  He  !  he !  he !  Oh  !  Ho 
ho!  ho!" 

Wha^-wmrW»^e«^  It  was  past  endurance.  By 
the  blood  of  Judas,  how  I  hated  him !  Then  there 
was  that  name  —  Claverhouse !  What  a  name ! 
Wasn't  it  absurd  ?  Claverhouse  !  Merciful  heaven, 
why  Claverhouse  ?  Again  and  again  I  asked  myself 
that  question.  I  should  not  have  minded  Smith, 
or  Brown,  or  Jones  —  but  Claverhouse !  I  leave  it 
to  you.  Repeat  it  to  yourself —  Claverhouse.  Just 
listen  to  the  ridiculous  sound  of  it  —  Claverhouse ! 
Should  a  man  live  with  such  a  name  ?  I  ask  of  you. 
"No,"  you  say.  And  "No"  said  1^ 

But  I  bethought  me  of  his  mortgage.  What  of 
his  crops  and  barn  destroyed,  I  knew  he  would  be 
unable  to  meet  it.  So  I  got  a  shrewd,  close-mouthed, 
tight-fisted  money-lender  to  get  the  mortgage  trans 
ferred  to  him.  I  did  not  appear,  but  through  this 
agent  I  forced  the  foreclosure,  and  but  few  days 
(no  more,  believe  me,  than  the  law  allowed)  were 
given  John  Claverhouse  to  remove  his  goods  and 
chattels  from  the  premises.  Then  I  strolled  down 
to  see  how  he  took  it,  for  he  had  lived  there  upward 


8  MOON-FACE 

of  twenty  years.  But  he  met  me  with  his  saucer- 
eyes  twinkling,  and  the  light  glowing  and  spreading 
in  his  face  till  it  was  as  a  full-risen  moon. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  he  laughed.  "The  funniest 
tike,  that  youngster  of  mine  !  Did  you  ever  hear  the 
like  ?  Let  me  tell  you.  He  was  down  playing  by 
the  edge  of  the  river  when  a  piece  of  the  bank  caved 
in  and  splashed  him.  'Q  papa!'  he  cried;  'a  great 
big  puddle  flewed  up  and  hit  me.": 

He  stopped  and  waited  for  me  to  join  him  in  his 
infernal  glee. 

"I  don't  see  any  laugh  in  it,"  I  said  shortly,  and 
I  know  my  face  went  sour. 

He  regarded  me  with  wonderment,  and  then  came 
the  damnable  light,  glowing  and  spreading,  as  I  have 
described  it,  till  his  face  shone  soft  and  warm,  like 
the  summer  moon,  and  then  the  laugh  —  "Ha  !  ha  ! 
That's  funny !  You  don't  see  it,  eh  ?  He !  he ! 
Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  He  doesn't  see  it !  Why,  look  here. 
You  know  a  puddle  — " 

But  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  left  him.  That  was 
the  last.  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  The  thing 
must  end  right  there,  I  thought,  curse  him !  The 
earth  should  be  quit  of  him.  And  as  I  went  over  the 


MOON-FACE  9 

hill,  I  could  hear  his  monstrous  laugh  reverberating 
against  the  sky. 

FNow,  I  pride  myself  on  doing  things  neatly,  and 
when  I  resolved  to  kill  John  Claverhouse  I  had  it 
in  mind  to  do  so  in  such  fashion  that  I  should  not 
look  back  upon  it  and  feel  ashamed.  I  hate  bungling, 
and  I  hate  brutality.  To  me  there  is  something 
repugnant  in  merely  striking  a  man  with  one's  naked 
fist  —  faugh  !  it  is  sickening  !  So,  to  shoot,  or  stab, 
or  club  John  Claverhouse  (oh,  that  name  !)  did  not 
appeal  to  me.  And  not  only  was  I  impelled  to  do 
it  neatly  and  artistically,  but  also  in  such  manner 
that  not  the  slightest  possible  suspicion  could  be 
directed  against  me. 

To  this  end  I  bent  my  intellect,  and,  after  a  week 
of  profound  incubation,  I  hatched  the  scheme. 
Then  I  set  to  work.  I  bought  a 


krteh,  five  months  old,  and  devoted  my  whole 
attention  to  her  training.  \  Had  any  one  spied  upon 
me,  they  would  have  remarked  that  this  train 
ing  consisted  entirely  of  one  thing  —  retrieving.  \  I 
taught  the  dog,  which  I  called  "Bellona,"  to  fetch 
sticks  I  threw  into  the  water,  and  not  only  to  fetch, 
but  to  fetch  at  once,  without  mouthing  or  playing 


io  MOON-FACE 

with  them.  The  point  was  that  she  was  to  stop  for 
nothing,  but  to  deliver  the  stick  in  all  haste.  I 
made  a  practice  of  running  away  and  leaving  her 
to  chase  me,  with  the  stick  in  her  mouth,  till  she 
caught  me.  She  was  a  bright  animal,  and  took  to 
the  game  with  such  eagerness  that  I  was  soon 
content. 

After  that,  at  the  first  casual  opportunity,  I  pre 
sented  Bellona  to  John  Claverhouse.  jl  knew  what 
I  was  about,  for  I  was  aware  of  a  little  weakness  of 
his,  and  of  a  little  private  sinning  of  which  he  was 
regularly  and  inveterately  guilty. 
/"No,"  he  said,  when  I  placed  the  end  of  the  rope 
in  his  hand.  "No,  you  don't  mean  it."  And  his 
mouth  opened  wide  and  he  grinned  all  over  his 
damnable  moon-face. 

"I— "I  kind  of  thought,  somehow,  you  didn't 
like  me,"  he  explained.  "Wasn't  it  funny  for  me 
to  make  such  a  mistake?"  And  at  the  thought  he 
held  his  sides  with  laughter.  J 

"What  is  her  name  ?"  he  managed  to  ask  between 
paroxysms. 

"Bellona,"  I  said. 

"He  !  he  !"  he  tittered.     "What  a  funny  name  !" 


MOON-FACE  ii 

I  gritted  my  teeth,  for  his  mirth  put  them  on  edge, 
and  snapped  out  between  them,  "She  was  the  wife 
of  Mars,  you  know." 

Then  the  light  of  the  full  moon  began  to  suffuse 
his  face,  until  he  exploded  with:  "That  was  my 
other  dog.  Well,  I  guess  she's  a  widow  now.  Oh ! 
Ho!  ho!  E!  he!  he!  Ho  !"  he  whooped  after  me, 
and  I  turned  and  fled  swiftly  over  the  hill. 

1  The  week  passed  by,  and  on  Saturday  evening 
I  said  to  him,  "You  go  away  Monday,  don't 
you?" 

He  nodded  his  head  and  grinned. 

"Then  you  won't  have  another  chance  to  get  a 
mess  of  those  trout  you  just  'dote'  on." 

But  he  did  not  notice  the  sneer.  "Oh,  I  don't 
know,"  he  chuckled.  "I'm  going  up  to-morrow  to 
try  pretty  hard." 

Thus  was  assurance  made  doubly  sure,  and  I 
went  back  to  my  house  hugging  myself  with 
rapture. 

Early  next  morning  I  saw  him  go  by  with  a  dip- 
net  and  gunnysack,  and  Bellona  trotting  at  his  heels. 
I  knew  where  he  was  bound,  and  cut  out  by  the  back 
pasture  and  climbed  through  the  underbrush  to  the 


12  MOON-FACE 

top  of  the  mountain.  I  Keeping  carefully  out  of  sight, 
I  followed  the  crest  along  for  a  couple  of  miles  to  a 
natural  amphitheatre  in  the  hills,  where  the  little 
river  raced  down  out  of  a  gorge  and  stopped  for 
breath  in  a  large  and  placid  rock-bound  pool.  That 
was  the  spot !  T I  sat  down  on  the  croup  of  the 
mountain,  where  I  could  see  all  that  occurred,  and 
lighted  my  pipe. 

Ere  many  minutes  had  passed,  John  Claverhouse 
came  plodding  up  the  bed  of  the  stream.  Bellona 
was  ambling  about  him,  and  they  were  in  high 
feather,  her  short,  snappy  barks  mingling  with  his 
deeper  chest-notes.  Arrived  at  the  pool,  he  threw 
down  the  dip-net  and  sack,  and  drew  from  his  hip- 
pocket  what  looked  like  a  large,  fat  candle.  But  I 
knew  it  to  be  a  stick  of  "giant";  for  such  was  his 
method  of  catching  trout.  He  dynamited  them. 
He  attached  the  fuse  by  wrapping  the  "giant" 
tightly  in  a  piece  of  cotton.  Then  he  ignited  the 
fuse  and  tossed  the  explosive  into  the  pool. 

Like  a  flash,  Bellona  was  into  the  pool  after  it. 
I  could  have  shrieked  aloud  for  joy.  Claver 
house  yelled  at  her,  but  without  avail.  He  pelted 
her  with  clods  and  rocks,  but  she  swam  steadily  on 


MOON-FACE  13 

till  she  got  the  stick  of  " giant''  in  her  mouth,  when 
she  whirled  about  and  headed  for  shore.  Then, 
for  the  first  time,  he  realized  his  danger,  and  started 
to  run.  As  foreseen  and  planned  by  me,  she  made 
the  bank  and  took  out  after  him.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  it 
was  great !  As  I  have  said,  the  pool  lay  in  a  sort 
of  amphitheatre.  Above  and  below,  the  stream 
could  be  crossed  on  stepping-stones.  And  around 
and  around,  up  and  down  and  across  the  stones, 
raced  Claverhouse  and  Bellona.  I  could  never 
have  believed  that  such  an  ungainly  man  could  run 
so  fast.  But  run  he  did,  Bellona  hot-footed  after 
him,  and  gaining.  And  then,  just  as  she  caught  up, 
he  in  full  stride,  and  she  leaping  with  nose  at  his 
knee,  there  was  a  sudden  flash,  a  burst  of  smoke, 
a  terrific  detonation,  and  where  man  and  dog 
had  been  the  instant  before  there  was  naught  to  be 
seen  but  a  big  hole  in  the  ground. 

"Death  from  accident  while  engaged  in  illegal 
fishing."  That  was  the  verdict  of  the  coroner's 
jury;  and  that  is  why  I  pride  myself  on  the  neat 
and  artistic  way  in  which  I  finished  ofF  John  Claver 
house.  There  was  no  bungling,  no  brutality; 
nothing  of  which  to  be  ashamed  in  the  whole  trans- 


i4  MOON-FACE 

action,  as  I  am  sure  you  will  agree.  No  more 
does  his  infernal  laugh  go  echoing  among  the  hills, 
and  no  more  does  his  fat  moon-face  rise  up  to 
vex  me.  My  days  are  peaceful  now,  and  my 
night's  sleep  deep. 


THE    LEOPARD    MAN'S  STORY 


THE  LEOPARD  MAN'S  STORY* 

HE  had  a  dreamy,  far-away  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  his  sad,  insistent  voice,  gentle-spoken 
as  a  maid's,  seemed  the  placid  embodiment 
of  some  deep-seated  melancholy.  He  was  the  Leop 
ard  Man,  but  he  did  not  look  it.  His  business  in 
life,  whereby  he  lived,  was  to  appear  in  a  cage  of 
performing  leopards  before  vast  audiences,  and  to 
thriH  those  audiences  by  certain  exhibitions  of 
nerve  for  which  his  employers  rewarded  him  on  a 
scale  commensurate  with  the  thrills  he  produced. 

As  I  say,  he  did  not  look  it.  He  was  narrow- 
hipped,  narrow-shouldered,  and  anaemic,  while  he 
seemed  not  so  much  oppressed  by  gloom  as  by  a  sweet 
and  gentle  sadness,  the  weight  of  which  was  as 
sweetly  and  gently  borne.  For  an  hour  I  had  been 
trying  to  get  a  story  out  of  him,  but  he  appeared  to 
lack  imagination.  To  him  there  was  no  romance 
in  his  gorgeous  career,  no  deeds  of  daring,  no  thrills 
—  nothing  but  a  gray  sameness  and  infinite  boredom. 

Lions  ?     Oh,  yes  !  he  had  fought  with  them.     It 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  FRANK  LESLIE  PUBLISHING  HOUSE. 
C  I7 


i8  THE   LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY 

was  nothing.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to  stay  sober. 
Anybody  could  whip  a  lion  to  a  standstill  with  an 
ordinary  stick.  He  had  fought  one  for  half  an  hour 
once.  Just  hit  him  on  the  nose  every  time  he  rushed, 
and  when  he  got  artful  and  rushed  with  his  head 
down,  why,  the  thing  to  do  was  to  stick  out  your 
leg.  When  he  grabbed  at  the  leg  you  drew  it  back 
and  hit  him  on  the  nose  again.  That  was  all. 

With  the  far-away  look  in  his  eyes  and  his  soft 
flow  of  words  he  showed  me  his  scars.  There  were 
many  of  them,  and  one  recent  one  where  a  tigress 
had  reached  for  his  shoulder  and  gone  down  to  the 
bone.  I  could  see  the  neatly  mended  rents  in  the 
coat  he  had  on.  His  right  arm,  from  the  elbow 
down,  looked  as  though  it  had  gone  through  a 
threshing  machine,  what  of  the  ravage  wrought  by 
claws  and  fangs.  But  it  was  nothing,  he  said,  only 
the  old  wounds  bothered  him  somewhat  when 
rainy  weather  came  on. 

Suddenly  his  face  brightened  with  a  recollection, 
for  he  was  really  as  anxious  to  give  me  a  story  as  I 
was  to  get  it. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  of  the  lion-tamer  who 
was  hated  by  another  man  ? "  he  asked. 


THE   LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY  19 

He  paused  and  looked  pensively  at  a  sick  lion  in 
the  cage  opposite. 

"Got  the  toothache,"  he  explained.  "Well,  the 
lion-tamer's  big  play  to  the  audience  was  putting 
his  head  in  a  lion's  mouth.  The  man  who  hated 
him  attended  every  performance  in  the  hope  some 
time  of  seeing  that  lion  crunch  down.  He  followed 
the  show  about  all  over  the  country.  The  years 
went  by  and  he  grew  old,  and  the  lion-tamer  grew 
old,  and  the  lion  grew  old.  And  at  last  one  day, 
sitting  in  a  front  seat,  he  saw  what  he  had  waited 
for.  The  lion  crunched  down,  and  there  wasn't 
any  need  to  call  a  doctor." 

The  Leopard  Man  glanced  casually  over  his 
finger  nails  in  a  manner  which  would  have  been 
critical  had  it  not  been  so  sad. 

"Now,  that's  what  I  call  patience,"  he  continued, 
"and  it's  my  style.  But  it  was  not  the  style  of  a 
fellow  I  knew.  He  was  a  little,  thin,  sawed-off, 
sword-swallowing  and  juggling  Frenchman.  De 
Ville,  he  called  himself,  and  he  had  a  nice  wife.  She 
did  trapeze  work  and  used  to  dive  from  under  the 
roof  into  a  net,  turning  over  once  on  the  way  as  nice 
as  you  please. 


20  THE   LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY 

"De  Ville  had  a  quick  temper,  as  quick  as  his 
hand,  and  his  hand  was  as  quick  as  the  paw  of  a 
tiger.  One  day,  because  the  ring-master  called  him 
a  frog-eater,  or  something  like  that  and  maybe  a 
little  worse,  he  shoved  him  against  the  soft  pine 
background  he  used  in  his  knife-throwing  act,  so 
quick  the  ring-master  didn't  have  time  to  think, 
and  there,  before  the  audience,  De  Ville  kept  the 
air  on  fire  with  his  knives,  sinking  them  into  the  wood 
all  around  the  ring-master  so  close  that  they  passed 
through  his  clothes  and  most  of  them  bit  into  his 
skin. 

"The  clowns  had  to  pull  the  knives  out  to  get 
him  loose,  for  he  was  pinned  fast.  So  the  word 
went  around  to  watch  out  for  De  Ville,  and  no  one 
dared  be  more  than  barely  civil  to  his  wife.  And  she 
was  a  sly  bit  of  baggage,  too,  only  all  hands  were 
afraid  of  De  Ville. 

"But  there  was  one  man,  Wallace,  who  was 
afraid  of  nothing.  He  was  the  lion-tamer,  and  he 
had  the  self-same  trick  of  putting  his  head  into  the 
lion's  mouth.  He'd  put  it  into  the  mouths  of  any 
of  them,  though  he  preferred  Augustus,  a  big,  good- 
natured  beast  who  could  always  be  depended  upon. 


THE   LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY  21 

"As  I  was  saymg,  Wallace  —  'King'  Wallace 
we  called  him  —  was  afraid  of  nothing  alive  or 
dead.  He  was  a  king  and  no  mistake.  I've  seen 
him  drunk,  and  on  a  wager  go  into  the  cage  of  a 
lion  that'd  turned  nasty,  and  without  a  stick  beat 
him  to  a  finish.  Just  did  it  with  his  fist  on  the  nose. 

"Madame   de  Ville  — " 

At  an  uproar  behind  us  the  Leopard  Man  turned 
quietly  around.  It  was  a  divided  cage,  and  a  mon 
key,  poking  through  the  bars  and  around  the  par 
tition,  had  had  its  paw  seized  by  a  big  gray  wolf 
who  was  trying  to  pull  it  off  by  main  strength.  The 
arm  seemed  stretching  out  longer  and  longer  like  a 
thick  elastic,  and  the  unfortunate  monkey's  mates 
were  raising  a  terrible  din.  No  keeper  was  at  hand, 
so  the  Leopard  Man  stepped  over  a  couple  of  paces, 
dealt  the  wolf  a  sharp  blow  on  the  nose  with  the 
light  cane  he  carried,  and  returned  with  a  sadly 
apologetic  smile  to  take  up  his  unfinished  sentence 
as  though  there  had  been  no  interruption. 

" — looked  at  King  Wallace  and  King  Wallace 
looked  at  her,  while  De  Ville  looked  black.  We 
warned  Wallace>  but  it  was  no  use.  He  laughed 
at  us,  as  he  laughed  at  De  Ville  one  day  when  he 


22  THE   LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY 

shoved  De  Ville's  head  into  a  bucket  of  paste  because 
he  wanted  to  fight. 

"  De  Ville  was  in  a  pretty  mess  —  I  helped  to 
scrape  him  off;  but  he  was  cool  as  a  cucumber 
and  made  no  threats  at  all.  But  I  saw  a  glitter  in 
his  eyes  which  I  had  seen  often  in  the  eyes  of  wild 
beasts,  and  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  give  Wallace  a 
final  warning.  He  laughed,  but  he  did  not  look 
so  much  in  Madame  de  Ville's  direction  after  that. 

"Several  months  passed  by.  Nothing  had  hap 
pened  and  I  was  beginning  to  think  it  all  a  scare 
over  nothing.  We  were  West  by  that  time,  showing 
in  'Frisco.  It  was  during  the  afternoon  perform 
ance,  and  the  big  tent  was  filled  with  women  and 
children,  when  I  went  looking  for  Red  Denny,  the 
head  canvas-man,  who  had  walked  off  with  my 
pocket-knife. 

"Passing  by  one  of  the  dressing  tents  I  glanced 
in  through  a  hole  in  the  canvas  to  see  if  I  could 
locate  him.  He  wasn't  there,  but  directly  in  front 
of  me  was  King  Wallace,  in  tights,  waiting  for  his 
turn  to  go  on  with  his  cage  of  performing  lions. 
He  was  watching  with  much  amusement  a  quarrel 
between  a  couple  of  trapeze  artists.  All  the  rest  of 


THE  LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY  23 

the  people  in  the  dressing  tent  were  watching  the 
same  thing,  with  the  exception  of  De  Ville,  whom 
I  noticed  staring  at  Wallace  with  undisguised  hatred. 
Wallace  and  the  rest  were  all  too  busy  following  the 
quarrel  to  notice  this  or  what  followed. 

"But  I  saw  it  through  the  hole  in  the  canvas. 
De  Ville  drew  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket, 
made  as  though  to  mop  the  sweat  from  his  face  with 
it  (it  was  a  hot  day),  and  at  the  same  time  walked 
past  Wallace's  back.  He  never  stopped,  but  with 
a  flirt  of  the  handkerchief  kept  right  on  to  the  door 
way,  where  he  turned  his  head,  while  passing  out, 
and  shot  a  swift  look  back,  The  look  troubled  me 
at  the  time,  for  not  only  did  I  see  hatred  in  it,  but 
I  saw  triumph  as  well. 

"'De  Ville  will  bear  watching,'  I  said  to  myself, 
and  I  really  breathed  easier  when  I  saw  him  go  out 
the  entrance  to  the  circus  grounds  and  board  an 
electric  car  for  down  town.  A  few  minutes  later  I 
was  in  the  big  tent,  where  I  had  overhauled  Red 
Denny.  King  Wallace  was  doing  his  turn  and  hold 
ing  the  audience  spellbound.  He  was  in  a  particu 
larly  vicious  mood,  and  he  kept  the  lions  stirred 
up  till  they  were  all  snarling,  that  is,  all  of  them 


24  THE   LEOPARD   MAN'S   STORY 

except  old  Augustus,  and  he  was  just  too  fat  and 
lazy  and  old  to  get  stirred  up  over  anything. 

"Finally  Wallace  cracked  the  old  lion's  knees 
with  his  whip  and  got  him  into  position.  Old 
Augustus,  blinking  good-naturedly,  opened  his 
mouth  and  in  popped  Wallace's  head.  Then  the 
jaws  came  together,  crunch,  just  like  that." 

The  Leopard  Man  smiled  in  a  sweetly  wistful 
fashion,  and  the  far-away  look  came  into  his  eyes. 

"And  that  was  the  end  of  King  Wallace,"  he 
went  on  in  his  sad,  low  voice.  "After  the  excite 
ment  cooled  down  I  watched  my  chance  and  bent 
over  and  smelled  Wallace's  head.  Then  I  sneezed. " 

"It  .  .  .  it  was  ...  ?"  I  queried  with  halting 
eagerness. 

"Snuff  —  that  De  Ville  dropped  on  his  hair  in 
the  dressing  tent.  Old  Augustus  never  meant  to 
do  it.  He  only  sneezed." 


LOCAL    COLOR 


LOCAL   COLOR 

"T    DO  not  see  why  you  should   not  turn  this 
^       immense  amount  of  unusual  information  to 
account,"   I   told   him.     "Unlike   most   men 
equipped  with  similar  knowledge,  you  have  expres 
sion.     Your  style  is  - 

"  Is  sufficiently  —  er  —  journalese  ?  "  he  inter 
rupted  suavely. 

"  Precisely !     You   could   turn   a   pretty   penny." 
But     he     interlocked     his     fingers     meditatively, 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  dismissed  the  subject. 
"I   have  tried  it.     It  does  not  pay." 
"It  was  paid  for  and  published,"  he  added,  after 
a  pause.     "And  I  was  also  honored  with  sixty  days 
in  the  Hobo." 

"The  Hobo?"  I  ventured. 

"The  Hobo  — "  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  my 
Spencer  and  ran  along  the  titles  while  he  cast  his 
definition.  "The  Hobo,  my  dear  fellow,  is  the 

27 


28  LOCAL    COLOR 

name  for  that  particular  place  of  detention  in  city 
and  county  jails  wherein  are  assembled  tramps, 
drunks,  beggars,  and  the  riff-raff  of  petty  offenders. 
The  word  itself  is  a  pretty  one,  and  it  has  a  history. 
Hautbots  —  there's  the  French  of  it.  Haut,  mean 
ing  high,  and  hots,  wood.  In  English  it  becomes 
hautboy,  a  wooden  musical  instrument  of  two-foot 
tone,  I  believe,  played  with  a  double  reed,  an  oboe, 
in  fact.  You  remember  in  '  Henry  IV '  — 

"  '  The  case  of  a  treble  hautboy 
Was  a  mansion  for  him,  a  court.' 

From  this  to  ho-boy  is  but  a  step,  and  for  that 
matter  the  English  used  the  terms  interchangeably. 
But  —  and  mark  you,  the  leap  paralyzes  one  — 
crossing  the  Western  Ocean,  in  New  York  City,  haut 
boy,  or  ho-boy,  becomes  the  name  by  which  the 
night-scavenger  is  known.  In  a  way  one  understands 
its  being  born  of  the  contempt  for  wandering  players 
and  musical  fellows.  But  see  the  beauty  of  it !  the 
burn  and  the  brand !  The  night-scavenger,  the 
pariah,  the  miserable,  the  despised,  the  man  with 
out  caste !  And  in  its  next  incarnation,  consistently 
and  logically,  it  attaches  itself  to  the  American  out- 


LOCAL   COLOR  29 

cast,  namely,  the  tramp.  Then,  as  others  have 
mutilated  its  sense,  the  tramp  mutilates  its  form, 
and  ho-boy  becomes  exultantly  hobo.  Wherefore, 
the  large  stone  and  brick  cells,  lined  with  double 
and  triple-tiered  bunks,  in  which  the  Law  is  wont 
to  incarcerate  him,  he  calls  the  Hobo.  Interesting, 
isn't  it?" 

And  I  sat  back  and  marvelled  secretly  at  this 
encyclopaedic-minded  man,  this  Leith  Clay-Ran 
dolph,  this  common  tramp  who  made  himself  at 
home  in  my  den,  charmed  such  friends  as  gathered 
at  my  small  table,  outshone  me  with  his  brilliance 
and  his  manners,  spent  my  spending  money,  smoked 
my  best  cigars,  and  selected  from  my  ties  and  studs 
with  a  cultivated  and  discriminating  eye. 

He  absently  walked  over  to  the  shelves  and  looked 
into  Loria's  "Economic  Foundation  of  Society." 

"I  like  to  talk  with  you,"  he  remarked.  "You 
are  not  indifferently  schooled.  You've  read  the  books, 
and  your  economic  interpretation  of  history,  as  you 
choose  to  call  it"  (this  with  a  sneer),  "eminently 
fits  you  for  an  intellectual  outlook  on  life.  But 
your  sociologic  judgments  are  vitiated  by  your  lack 
of  practical  knowledge.  Now  I,  who  know  the  books, 


30  LOCAL  COLOR 

pardon  me,  somewhat  better  than  you,  know  life, 
too.  I  have  lived  it,  naked,  taken  it  up  in  both  my 
hands  and  looked  at  it,  and  tasted  it,  the  flesh  and 
the  blood  of  it,  and,  being  purely  an  intellectual, 
I  have  been  biased  by  neither  passion  nor  prejudice. 
All  of  which  is  necessary  for  clear  concepts,  and  all 
of  which  you  lack.  Ah !  a  really  clever  passage. 
Listen!" 

And  he  read  aloud  to  me  in  his  remarkable  style, 
paralleling  the  text  with  a  running  criticism  and 
commentary,  lucidly  wording  involved  and  lumber 
ing  periods,  casting  side  and  cross  lights  upon  the 
subject,  introducing  points  the  author  had  blundered 
past  and  objections  he  had  ignored,  catching  up  lost 
ends,  [flinging  a  contrast  into  a  paradox  and  reduc 
ing  it  to  a  coherent  and  succinctly  stated  truth  — 
in  short,  flashing  his  luminous  genius  in  a  blaze 
of  fire  over  pages  erstwhile  dull  and  heavy  and 
lifeless. 

It  is  long  since  that  Leith  Clay-Randolph  (note 
the  hyphenated  surname)  knocked  at  the  back  door 
of  Idlewild  and  melted  the  heart  of  Gunda.  Now 
Gunda  was  cold  as  her  Norway  hills,  though  in  her 
least  frigid  moods  she  was  capable  of  permitting 


LOCAL   COLOR  31 

especially  nice-looking  tramps  to  sit  on  the  back 
stoop  and  devour  lone  crusts  and  forlorn  and  for 
saken  chops.  But  that  a  tatterdemalion  out  of  the 
night  should  invade  the  sanctity  of  her  kitchen- 
kingdom  and  delay  dinner  while  she  set  a  place  for 
him  in  the  warmest  corner,  was  a  matter  of  such 
moment  that  the  Sunflower  went  to  see.  Ah,  the 
Sunflower,  of  the  soft  heart  and  swift  sympathy ! 
Leith  Clay-Randolph  threw  his  glamour  over  her 
for  fifteen  long  minutes,  whilst  I  brooded  with  my 
cigar,  and  then  she  fluttered  back  with  vague  words 
and  the  suggestion  of  a  cast-off  suit  I  would  never 
miss. 

"Surely  I  shall  never  miss  it,"  I  said,  and  I  had 
in  mind  the  dark  gray  suit  with  the  pockets  draggled 
from  the  freightage  of  many  books  —  books  that 
had  spoiled  more  than  one  day's  fishing  sport. 

"I  should  advise  you,  however,"  I  added,  "to 
mend  the  pockets  first." 

But  the  Sunflower's  face  clouded.  "N-o,"  she 
said,  "the  black  one." 

"The  black  one!"  This  explosively,  incredu 
lously.  "  I  wear  it  quite  often.  I  —  I  intended 
wearing  it  to-night." 


32  LOCAL   COLOR 

"You  have  two  better  ones,  and  you  know  I  never 
liked  it,  dear,"  the  Sunflower  hurried  on.  "  Besides, 
it's  shiny  — " 

"Shiny!" 

"It  —  it  soon  will  be,  which  is  just  the  same, 
and  the  man  is  really  estimable.  He  is  nice  and 
refined,  and  I  am  sure  he  — ' 

"Has  seen  better  days." 

"Yes,  and  the  weather  is  raw  and  beastly,  and 
his  clothes  are  threadbare.  And  you  have  many 


suits  — " 


"Five,"  I  corrected,  "counting  in  the  dark  gray 
fishing  outfit  with  the  draggled  pockets." 

"And  he  has  none,  no  home,  nothing — " 

"Not  even  a  Sunflower,"  —  putting  my  arm 
around  her,-  "wherefore  he  is  deserving  of  all 
things.  Give  him  the  black  suit,  dear  —  nay,  the 
best  one,  the  very  best  one.  Under  high  heaven 
for  such  lack  there  must  be  compensation!" 

"You  are  a  dear!"  And  the  Sunflower  moved 
to  the  door  and  looked  back  alluringly.  "You 
are  a  perfect  dear." 

And  this  after  seven  years,  I  marvelled,  till  she  was 
back  again,  timid  and  apologetic. 


LOCAL   COLOR  33 

"I  —  I  gave  him  one  of  your  white  shirts.  He 
wore  a  cheap  horrid  cotton  thing,  and  I  knew  it 
would  look  ridiculous.  And  then  his  shoes  were  so 
slipshod,  I  let  him  have  a  pair  of  yours,  the  old  ones 
with  the  narrow  caps  - 

"OU  ortes!" 

"Well,  they  pinched  horribly,  and  you  know 
they  did." 

It  was  ever  thus  the  Sunflower  vindicated  things. 

And  so  Leith  Clay-Randolph  came  to  Idlewild 
to  stay,  how  long  I  did  not  dream.  Nor  did  I  dream 
how  often  he  was  to  come,  for  he  was  like  an  erratic 
comet.  Fresh  he  would  arrive,  and  cleanly  clad, 
from  grand  folk  who  were  his  friends  as  I  was  his 
friend,  and  again,  weary  and  worn,  he  would  creep 
up  the  brier-rose  path  from  the  Montanas  or  Mexico. 
And  without  a  word,  when  his  wanderlust  gripped 
him,  he  was  off*  and  away  into  that  great  mys 
terious  underworld  he  called  "The  Road." 

"I  could  not  bring  myself  to  leave  until  I  had 
thanked  you,  you  of  the  open  hand  and  heart," 
he  said,  on  the  night  he  donned  my  good  black 
suit. 

And   I    confess   I   was    startled  when    I    glanced 


34  LOCAL   COLOR 

over  the  top  of  my  paper  and  saw  a  lofty-browed 
and  eminently  respectable-looking  gentleman,  boldly 
and  carelessly  at  ease.  The  Sunflower  was  right. 
He  must  have  known  better  days  for  the  black  suit 
and  white  shirt  to  have  effected  such  a  transforma 
tion.  Involuntarily  I  rose  to  my  feet,  prompted 
to  meet  him  on  equal  ground.  And  then  it 
was  that  the  Clay-Randolph  glamour  descended 
upon  me.  He  slept  at  Idlewild  that  night,  and  the 
next  night,  and  for  many  nights.  And  he  was  a 
man  to  love.  The  Son  of  Anak,  otherwise  Rufus 
the  Blue-Eyed,  and  also  plebeianly  known  as  Tots, 
rioted  with  him  from  brier-rose  path  to  farthest 
orchard,  scalped  him  in  the  haymow  with  barbaric 
yells,  and  once,  with  pharisaic  zeal,  was  near  to 
crucifying  him  under  the  attic  roof  beams.  The 
Sunflower  would  have  loved  him  for  the  Son  of 
Anak's  sake,  had  she  not  loved  him  for  his  own. 
As  for  myself,  let  the  Sunflower  tell,  in  the  times  he 
elected  to  be  gone,  of  how  often  I  wondered  when 
Leith  would  come  back  again,  Leith  the  Lovable. 
Yet  he  was  a  man  of  whom  we  knew  nothing. 
Beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  Kentucky-born,  his 
past  was  a  blank.  He  never  spoke  of  it.  And  he 


LOCAL   COLOR  35 

was  a  man  who  prided  himself  upon  his  utter  divorce 
of  reason  from  emotion.  To  him  the  world  spelled 
itself  out  in  problems.  I  charged  him  once  with 
being  guilty  of  emotion  when  roaring  round  the  den 
with  the  Son  of  Anak  pickaback.  Not  so,  he  held. 
Could  he  not  cuddle  a  sense-delight  for  the  problem's 
sake  ? 

He  was  elusive.  A  man  who  intermingled  name 
less  argot  with  polysyllabic  and  technical  terms,  he 
would  seem  sometimes  the  veriest  criminal,  in  speech, 
face,  expression,  everything;  at  other  times  the  cul 
tured  and  polished  gentleman,  and  again,  the  phi 
losopher  and  scientist.  But  there  was  something 
glimmering  there  which  I  never  caught  —  flashes  of 
sincerity,  of  real  feeling,  I  imagined,  which  were 
sped  ere  I  could  grasp;  echoes  of  the  man  he 
once  was,  possibly,  or  hints  of  the  man  behind  the 
mask.  But  the  mask  he  never  lifted,  and  the  real 
man  we  never  knew. 

"But  the  sixty  days  with  which  you  were  re 
warded  for  your  journalism?"  I  asked.  "Never 
mind  Loria.  Tell  me." 

"Well,  if  I  must."  He  flung  one  knee  over  the 
other  with  a  short  laugh. 


36  LOCAL   COLOR 

"In  a  town  that  shall  be  nameless,"  he  began, 
"in  fact,  a  city  of  fifty  thousand,  a  fair  and  beautiful 
city  wherein  men  slave  for  dollars  and  women  for 
dress,  an  idea  came  to  me.  My  front  was  prepos 
sessing,  as  fronts  go,  and  my  pockets  empty.  I  had 
in  recollection  a  thought  I  once  entertained  of  writ 
ing  a  reconciliation  of  Kant  and  Spencer.  Not  that 
they  are  reconcilable,  of  course,  but  the  room 
offered  for  scientific  satire  - 

I  waved  my  hand  impatiently,  and  he  broke 
off. 

"I  was  just  tracing  my  mental  states  for  you,  in 
order  to  show  the  genesis  of  the  action,"  he  explained. 
"However,  the  idea  came.  What  was  the  matter 
with  a  tramp  sketch  for  the  daily  press  ?  The  Ir 
reconcilability  of  the  Constable  and  the  Tramp,  for 
instance  ?  So  I  hit  the  drag  (the  drag,  my  dear 
fellow,  is  merely  the  street),  or  the  high  places,  if 
you  will,  for  a  newspaper  office.  The  elevator 
whisked  me  into  the  sky,  and  Cerberus,  in  the  guise 
of  an  anaemic  office  boy,  guarded  the  door.  Con 
sumption,  one  could  see  it  at  a  glance;  nerve,  Irish, 
colossal ;  tenacity,  undoubted ;  dead  inside  the 
year. 


LOCAL   COLOR  37 

"'Pale  youth/  quoth  I,  'I  pray  thee  the  way  to 
the  sanctum-sanctorum,  to  the  Most  High  Cock-a- 
lorum/ 

"He  deigned  to  look  at  me,  scornfully,  with  in 
finite  weariness. 

'"G'wan  an'  see  the  janitor.  I  don't  know 
nothin'  about  the  gas/ 

"'Nay,   my  lily-white,  the  editor/ 

'"Wich  editor?'  he  snapped  like  a  young  bull- 
terrier.  'Dramatic?  Sportin' ?  Society?  Sunday? 
Weekly  ?  Daily  ?  Telegraph  ?  Local  ?  News  ?  Edito 
rial  ?  Wich?' 

"Which,  I  did  not  know.  'The  Editor/  I  pro 
claimed  stoutly.  'The  only  Editor/ 

"'Aw,  Spargo!'  he  sniffed. 

"'Of  course,  Spargo/  I  answered.     'Who  else?' 

"'Gimme  yer  card/   says  he. 

'"My  what?' 

"'Yer  card —  Say!  Wot's  yer  business,  any 
way?' 

"And  the  anaemic  Cerberus  sized  me  up  with 
so  insolent  an  eye  that  I  reached  over  and  took  him 
out  of  his  chair.  I  knocked  on  his  meagre  chest 
with  my  fore  knuckle,  and  fetched  forth  a  weak, 


38  LOCAL    COLOR 

gaspy  cough;  but  he  looked  at  me  unflinchingly, 
much  like  a  defiant  sparrow  held  in  the  hand. 

"'I  am  the  census-taker  Time/  I  boomed  in  se 
pulchral  tones.  '  Beware  lest  I  knock  too  loud/ 

"'Oh,   I   don't   know/   he  sneered. 

"Whereupon  I  rapped  him  smartly,  and  he  choked 
and  turned  purplish. 

"'Well,  whatcher  want?'  he  wheezed  with  re 
turning  breath. 

"'I  want  Spargo,  the  only  Spargo.' 

"'Then  leave  go,  an'  I'll  glide  an'  see.' 

"'No  you  don't,  my  lily-white.'  And  I  took  a 
tighter  grip  on  his  collar.  'No  bouncers  in  mine, 
understand!  I'll  go  along." 

Leith  dreamily  surveyed  the  long  ash  of  his  cigar 
and  turned  to  me.  "Do  you  know,  Anak,  you 
can't  appreciate  the  joy  of  being  the  buffoon,  play 
ing  the  clown.  You  couldn't  do  it  if  you  wished. 
Your  pitiful  little  conventions  and  smug  assumptions 
of  decency  would  prevent.  But  simply  to  turn 
loose  your  soul  to  every  whimsicality,  to  play  the  fool 
unafraid  of  any  possible  result,  why,  that  requires 
a  man  other  than  a  householder  and  law-respect 
ing  citizen. 


LOCAL   COLOR  39 

"However,  as  I  was  saying,  I  saw  the  only  Spargo. 
He  was  a  big,  beefy,  red-faced  personage,  full- 
jowled  and  double-chinned,  sweating  at  his  desk 
in  his  shirt-sleeves.  It  was  August,  you  know.  He 
was  talking  into  a  telephone  when  I  entered,  or 
swearing  rather,  I  should  say,  and  the  while  study 
ing  me  with  his  eyes.  When  he  hung  up,  he  turned 
to  me  expectantly. 

"'You  are  a  very  busy  man,'  I  said. 

"He  jerked  a  nod  with  his  head,  and 
waited. 

"'And  after  all,  is  it  worth  it  ?'  I  went  on.  'What 
does  life  mean  that  it  should  make  you  sweat  ? 
What  justification  do  you  find  in  sweat  ?  Now 
look  at  me.  I  toil  not,  neither  do  I  spin  - 

"'Who  are  you?  What  are  you?'  he  bellowed 
with  a  suddenness  that  was,  well,  rude,  tearing  the 
words  out  as  a  dog  does  a  bone. 

"'A  very  pertinent  question,  sir,'  I  acknowledged. 
'First,  I  am  a  man;  next,  a  down-trodden  American 
citizen.  I  am  cursed  with  neither  profession,  trade, 
nor  expectations.  Like  Esau,  I  am  pottageless. 
My  residence  is  everywhere;  the  sky  is  my  coverlet. 
I  am  one  of  the  dispossessed,  a  sansculotte,  a  proleta- 


40  LOCAL   COLOR 

rian,  or,  in  simpler  phraseology  addressed  to  your 
understanding,  a  tramp/ 

"'What  the  hell  —  ?' 

"Nay,  fair  sir,  a  tramp,  a  man  of  devious  ways 
and  strange  lodgements  and  multifarious  — ' 

"'Quit  it!'   he  shouted.     'What  do  you  want?' 
"I  want  money/ 

"  He  started  and  half  reached  for  an  open  drawer 
where  must  have  reposed  a  revolver,  then  bethought 
himself  and  growled,  'This  is  no  bank/ 

"Nor  have  I  checks  to  cash.  But  I  have,  sir, 
an  idea,  which,  by  your  leave  and  kind  assistance, 
I  shall  transmute  into  cash.  In  short,  how  does  a 
tramp  sketch,  done  by  a  tramp  to  the  life,  strike  you  ? 
Are  you  open  to  it  ?  Do  your  readers  hunger  for 
it  ?  Do  they  crave  after  it  ?  Can  they  be  happy 
without  it  ?' 

"I  thought  for  a  moment  that  he  would  have 
apoplexy,  but  he  quelled  the  unruly  blood  and  said 
he  liked  my  nerve.  I  thanked  him  and  assured 
him  I  liked  it  myself.  Then  he  offered  me  a  cigar 
and  said  he  thought  he'd  do  business  with  me. 

"But  mind  you/  he  said,  when  he  had  jabbed 
a  bunch  of  copy  paper  into  my  hand  and  given  me 


LOCAL    COLOR  41 

a  pencil  from  his  vest  pocket,  'mind  you,  I  won't 
stand  for  the  high  and  flighty  philosophical,  and  I 
perceive  you  have  a  tendency  that  way.  Throw  in 
the  local  color,  wads  of  it,  and  a  bit  of  sentiment 
perhaps,  but  no  slumgullion  about  political  economy 
nor  social  strata  or  such  stuff.  Make  it  concrete, 
to  the  point,  with  snap  and  go  and  life,  crisp  and 
crackling  and  interesting  —  tumble  ?' 

"And  I  tumbled  and  borrowed  a  dollar. 
"  Don't  forget  the  local  color  I '  he  shouted  after 
me  through  the  door. 

"And,  Anak,  it  was  the  local  color  that  did  for  me. 

"The  anaemic  Cerberus  grinned  when  I  took 
the  elevator.  'Got  the  bounce,  eh?' 

"'Nay,  pale  youth,  so  lily-white/  I  chortled, 
waving  the  copy  paper;  'not  the  bounce,  but  a  de 
tail.  I'll  be  City  Editor  in  three  months,  and  then 
I'll  make  you  jump.' 

"And  as  the  elevator  stopped  at  the  next  floor 
down  to  take  on  a  pair  of  maids,  he  strolled  over  to 
the  shaft,  and  without  frills  or  verbiage  consigned 
me  and  my  detail  to  perdition.  But  I  liked  him. 
He  had  pluck  and  was  unafraid,  and  he  knew, 
as  well  as  I,  that  death  clutched  him  close." 


42  LOCAL   COLOR 

"But  how  could  you,  Leith,"  I  cried,  the  picture 
of  the  consumptive  lad  strong  before  me,  "how 
could  you  treat  him  so  barbarously?" 

Leith  laughed  dryly.  "My  dear  fellow,  how 
often  must  I  explain  to  you  your  confusions  ?  Ortho 
dox  sentiment  and  stereotyped  emotion  master  you. 
And  then  your  temperament !  You  are  really  in 
capable  of  rational  judgments.  Cerberus  ?  Pshaw ! 
A  flash  expiring,  a  mote  of  fading  sparkle,  a  dim- 
pulsing  and  dying  organism  —  pouf!  a  snap  of  the 
fingers,  a  puff  of  breath,  what  would  you  ?  A  pawn 
in  the  game  of  life.  Not  even  a  problem.  There 
'is  no  problem  in  a  still-born  babe,  nor  in  a  dead 
child.  They  never  arrived.  Nor  did  Cerberus. 
Now  for  a  really  pretty  problem  - 

"But  the  local  color?"  I  prodded  him. 

"That's  right,"  he  replied.  "Keep  me  in  the 
running.  Well,  I  took  my  handful  of  copy  paper 
down  to  the  railroad  yards  (for  local  color),  dangled 
my  legs  from  a  side-door  Pullman,  which  is  another 
name  for  a  box-car,  and  ran  off  the  stuff.  Of  course 
I  made  it  clever  and  brilliant  and  all  that,  with  my 
little  unanswerable  slings  at  the  state  and  my  social 
paradoxes,  and  withal  made  it  concrete  enough  to 


LOCAL    COLOR  43 

dissatisfy  the  average  citizen.  From  the  tramp 
standpoint,  the  constabulary  of  the  township  was 
particularly  rotten,  and  I  proceeded  to  open  the 
eyes  of  the  good  people.  It  is  a  proposition,  mathe 
matically  demonstrable,  that  it  costs  the  community 
more  to  arrest,  convict,  and  confine  its  tramps  in 
jail,  than  to  send  them  as  guests,  for  like  periods  of 
time,  to  the  best  hotel.  And  this  I  developed,  giv 
ing  the  facts  and  figures,  the  constable  fees  and  the 
mileage,  and  the  court  and  jail  expenses.  Oh,  it 
was  convincing,  and  it  was  true;  and  I  did  it  in  a 
lightly  humorous  fashion  which  fetched  the  laugh 
and  left  the  sting.  The  main  objection  to  the  sys 
tem,  I  contended,  was  the  defraudment  and  robbery 
of  the  tramp.  The  good  money  which  the  commu 
nity  paid  out  for  him  should  enable  him  to  riot  in 
luxury  instead  of  rotting  in  dungeons.  I  even  drew 
the  figures  so  fine  as  to  permit  him  not  only  to  live 
in  the  best  hotel  but  to  smoke  two  twenty-five-cent 
cigars  and  indulge  in  a  ten-cent  shine  each  day, 
and  still  not  cost  the  taxpayers  so  much  as  they 
were  accustomed  to  pay  for  his  conviction  and  jail 
entertainment.  And,  as  subsequent  events  proved, 
it  made  the  taxpayers  wince. 


44  LOCAL   COLOR 

"One  of  the  constables  I  drew  to  the  life;  nor 
did  I  forget  a  certain  Sol  Glenhart,  as  rotten  a  police 
judge  as  was  to  be  found  between  the  seas.  And  this 
I  say  out  of  a  vast  experience.  While  he  was  notorious 
in  local  trampdom,  his  civic  sins  were  not  only  not 
unknown  but  a  crying  reproach  to  the  townspeople. 
Of  course  I  refrained  from  mentioning  name  or 
habitat,  drawing  the  picture  in  an  impersonal,  com 
posite  sort  of  way,  which  none  the  less  blinded  no 
one  to  the  faithfulness  of  the  local  color. 

"Naturally,  myself  a  tramp,  the  tenor  of  the  article 
was  a  protest  against  the  maltreatment  of  the  tramp. 
Cutting  the  taxpayers  to  the  pits  of  their  purses 
threw  them  open  to  sentiment,  and  then  in  I  tossed 
the  sentiment,  lumps  and  chunks  of  it.  Trust  me, 
it  was  excellently  done,  and  the  rhetoric  —  say ! 
Just  listen  to  the  tail  of  my  peroration: 

" '  So,  as  we  go  mooching  along  the  drag,  with  a  sharp 
lamp  out  for  John  Law,  we  cannot  help  remembering 
that  we  are  beyond  the  pale;  that  our  ways  are  not  their 
ways ;  and  that  the  ways  of  John  Law  with  us  are  differ 
ent  from  his  ways  with  other  men.  Poor  lost  souls, 
wailing  for  a  crust  in  the  dark,  we  know  full  well  our 
helplessness  and  ignominy.  And  well  may  we  repeat 


LOCAL   COLOR  45 

after  a  stricken  brother  over-seas :  "  Our  pride  it  is  to 
know  no  spur  of  pride."  Man  has  forgotten  us;  God 
has  forgotten  us ;  only  are  we  remembered  by  the  har 
pies  of  justice,  who  prey  upon  our  distress  and  coin  our 
sighs  and  tears  into  bright  shining  dollars.' 

"Incidentally,  my  picture  of  Sol  Glenhart,  the 
police  judge,  was  good.  A  striking  likeness,  and 
unmistakable,  with  phrases  tripping  along  like  this : 
'This  crook-nosed,  gross-bodied  harpy';  'this  civic 
sinner,  this  judicial  highwayman';  'possessing  the 
morals  of  the  Tenderloin  and  an  honor  which  thieves' 
honor  puts  to  shame';  'who  compounds  criminality 
with  shyster-sharks,  and  in  atonement  railroads  the 
unfortunate  and  impe.:unious  to  rotting  cells,'  - 
and  so  forth  and  so  forth,  style  sophomoric  and 
devoid  of  the  dignity  and  tone  one  would  employ 
in  a  dissertation  on  'Surplus  Value,'  or  'The  Falla 
cies  of  Marxism,'  but  just  the  stuff  the  dear  public 
likes. 

"Humph !'   grunted  Spargo  when  I  put  the  copy 
in  h'is  fist.     'Swift  gait  you  strike,  my  man.' 

"I  fixed  a  hypnotic  eye  on  his  vest  pocket,  and 
he  passed  out  one  of  his  superior  cigars,  which  I 
burned  while  he  ran  through  the  stuff.  Twice  or 


46  LOCAL    COLOR 

thrice  he  looked  over  the  top  of  the  paper  at  me, 
searchingly,  but  said  nothing  till  he  had  finished. 

"'Where'd    you    work,    you    pencil-pusher?'     he 
asked. 

"My  maiden  effort,'  I  simpered  modestly,  scrap 
ing  one  foot  and  faintly  simulating  embarrass 
ment. 

"Maiden  hell!     What  salary  do  you  want?' 

"Nay,  nay,'  I  answered.  'No  salary  in  mine, 
thank  you  most  to  death.  I  am  a  free  down-trodden 
American  citizen,  and  no  man  shall  say  my  time  is 
his.' 

"Save  John  Law,'  he  chuckled. 

"Save  John  Law,'  said  I. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  bucking  the  police 
department?'  he  demanded  abruptly. 

"I  didn't  know,  but  I  knew  you  were  in  train 
ing,'  I  answered.  'Yesterday  morning  a  charitably 
inclined  female  presented  me  with  three  biscuits, 
a  piece  of  cheese,  and  a  funereal  slab  of  chocolate 
cake,  all  wrapped  in  the  current  Clarion,  wherein  I 
noted  an  unholy  glee  because  the  Cowbell's  candi 
date  for  chief  of  police  had  been  turned  down. 
Likewise  I  learned  the  municipal  election  was  at 


LOCAL   COLOR  47 

hand,  and  put  two  and  two  together.  Another 
mayor,  and  the  right  kind,  means  new  police  com 
missioners;  new  police  commissioners  means  new 
chief  of  police;  new  chief  of  police  means  Cow 
bell's  candidate;  ergo,  your  turn  to  play.' 

"He  stood  up,  shook  my  hand,  and  emptied  his 
plethoric  vest  pocket.  I  put  them  away  and  puffed 
on  the  old  one. 

"' You'll  do/  he  jubilated.  'This  stuff'  (patting 
my  copy)  'is  the  first  gun  of  the  campaign.  You'll 
touch  off  many  another  before  we're  done.  I've 
been  looking  for  you  for  years.  Come  on  in  on  the 
editorial.' 

"But  I  shook  my  head. 

"'Come,  now!'  he  admonished  sharply.  'No 
shenanagan !  The  Cowbell  must  have  you.  It 
hungers  for  you,  craves  after  you,  won't  be  happy 
till  it  gets  you.  What  say?' 

"In  short,  he  wrestled  with  me,  but  I  was  bricks, 
and  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  only  Spargo  gave 
it  up. 

"Remember,'  he  said,  'any  time  you  reconsider, 
I'm  open.  No  matter  where  you  are,  wire  me  and 
I'll  send  the  ducats  to  come  on  at  once.' 


48  LOCAL  COLOR 

"I  thanked  him,  and  asked  the  pay  for  my  copy 
—  dope,  he  called  it. 

"Oh,  regular  routine/  he  said.  'Get  it  the  first 
Thursday  after  publication/ 

'Then  I'll  have  to  trouble  you  for  a  few  scad 
until  — ' 

"He  looked  at  me  and  smiled.  'Better  cough  up, 
eh?' 

"Sure/  I  said.  'Nobody  to  identify  me,  so 
make  it  cash/ 

"And  cash  it  was  made,  thirty  plunks  (a  plunk 
is  a  dollar,  my  dear  Anak),  and  I  pulled  my  freight 
.  .  .  eh  ?  —  oh,  departed. 

"Pale  youth/  I  said  to  Cerberus,  'I  am  bounced/ 
(He  grinned  with  pallid  joy.)  'And  in  token  of  the 
sincere  esteem  I  bear  you,  receive  this  little  — ' 
(His  eyes  flushed  and  he  threw  up  one  hand,  swiftly, 
to  guard  his  head  from  the  expected  blow)  —  'this 
little  memento/ 

"I  had  intended  to  slip  a  fiver  into  his  hand,  but 
for  all  his  surprise,  he  was  too  quick  for  me. 

"Aw,  keep  yer  dirt/  he  snarled. 

"I  like  you  still  better/  I  said,  adding  a  second 
fiver.  'You  grow  perfect.  But  you  must  take  it/ 


LOCAL    COLOR  49 

"He  backed  away  growling,  but  I  caught  him 
round  the  neck,  roughed  what  little  wind  he  had 
out  of  him,  and  left  him  doubled  up  with  the  two 
fives  in  his  pocket.  But  hardly  had  the  elevator 
started,  when  the  two  coins  tinkled  on  the  roof  and 
fell  down  between  the  car  and  the  shaft.  As  luck 
had  it,  the  door  was  not  closed,  and  I  put  out  my 
hand  and  caught  them.  The  elevator  boy's  eyes 
bulged. 

"It's  a  way   I    have,'    I    said,    pocketing   them. 
"'Some  bloke's  dropped  'em  down  the  shaft,'  he 
whispered,  awed  by  the  circumstance. 
"It  stands  to  reason,'  said  I. 
"I'll  take  charge  of  'em,'  he  volunteered. 
"'  Nonsense!' 

'You'd  better  turn  'em  over,'  he  threatened,  'or 
I  stop  the  works.' 
'"Pshaw!' 
"And  stop  he  did,  between  floors. 

'Young  man,'  I  said,  'have  you  a  mother?' 
(He  looked  serious,  as  though  regretting  his  act, 
and  further  to  impress  him  I  rolled  up  my  right 
sleeve  with  greatest  care.)  'Are  you  prepared  to 
die?'  (I  got  a  stealthy  crouch  on,  and  put  a  cat- 


50  LOCAL    COLOR 

foot  forward.)  'But  a  minute,  a  brief  minute, 
stands  between  you  and  eternity.'  (Here  I  crooked 
my  right  hand  into  a  claw  and  slid  the  other  foot 
up.)  'Young  man,  young  man/  I  trumpeted,  'in 
thirty  seconds  I  shall  tear  your  heart  dripping  from 
your  bosom  and  stoop  to  hear  you  shriek  in  hell.' 

"It  fetched  him.  He  gave  one  whoop,  the  car 
shot  down,  and  I  was  on  the  drag.  You  see,  Anak, 
it's  a  habit  I  can't  shake  off  of  leaving  vivid  memories 
behind.  No  one  ever  forgets  me. 

"I  had  not  got  to  the  corner  when  I  heard  a 
familiar  voice  at  my  shoulder: 

" '  Hello,  Cinders  !     Which  way  ? ' 

"It  was  Chi  Slim,  who  had  been  with  me  once 
when  I  was  thrown  off  a  freight  in  Jacksonville. 
'Couldn't  see  'em  fer  cinders,'  he  described  it,  and 
the  monica  stuck  by  me.  .  .  .  Monica  ?  From 
monos.  The  tramp  nickname. 

"'Bound  south,'  I  answered.     'And  how's  Slim?' 

"'Bum.     Bulls  is  horstile.' 

"'Where's  the  push?' 
"At  the  hang-out.     I'll  put  you  wise.' 

"'Who's  the  main  guy?' 

"'Me,  and  don't  yer  ferget  it.'" 


LOCAL   COLOR  51 

The  lingo  was  rippling  from  Leith's  lips,  but  per 
force  I  stopped  him.  "  Pray  translate.  Remember, 
I  am  a  foreigner." 

"Certainly,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "Slim  is 
in  poor  luck.  Bull  means  policeman.  He  tells  me 
the  bulls  are  hostile.  I  ask  where  the  push  is,  the 
gang  he  travels  with.  By  putting  me  wise  he  will 
direct  me  to  where  the  gang  is  hanging  out.  The 
main  guy  is  the  leader.  Slim  claims  that  distinc 
tion. 

"Slim  and  I  hiked  out  to  a  neck  of  woods  just 
beyond  town,  and  there  was  the  push,  a  score  of 
husky  hobos,  charmingly  located  on  the  bank  of  a 
little  purling  stream. 

"'Come  on,  you  mugs!'  Slim  addressed  them. 
'Throw  yer  feet!  Here's  Cinders,  an'  we  must  do 
'em  proud.' 

"All  of  which  signifies  that  the  hobos  had  better 
strike  out  and  do  some  lively  begging  in  order  to 
get  the  wherewithal  to  celebrate  my  return  to  the 
fold  after  a  year's  separation.  But  I  flashed  my 
dough  and  Slim  sent  several  of  the  younger  men 
off  to  buy  the  booze.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Anak, 
it  was  a  blow-out  memorable  in  Trampdom  to  this 


52  LOCAL    COLOR 

day.  It's  amazing  the  quantity  of  booze  thirty 
plunks  will  buy,  and  it  is  equally  amazing  the 
quantity  of  booze  outside  of  which  twenty  stiffs 
will  get.  Beer  and  cheap  wine  made  up  the  card, 
with  alcohol  thrown  in  for  the  blow  ed-in-the- glass 
stiffs.  It  was  great  —  an  orgy  under  the  sky,  a 
contest  of  beaker-men,  a  study  in  primitive  beastli 
ness.  To  me  there  is  something  fascinating  in  a 
drunken  man,  and  were  I  a  college  president  I 
should  institute  P.G.  psychology  courses  in  prac 
tical  drunkenness.  It  would  beat  the  books  and 
compete  with  the  laboratory. 

"All  of  which  is  neither  here  nor  there,  for  after 
sixteen  hours  of  it,  early  next  morning,  the  whole 
push  was  copped  by  an  overwhelming  array  of  con 
stables  and  carted  off  to  jail.  After  breakfast, 
about  ten  o'clock,  we  were  lined  upstairs  into  court, 
limp  and  spiritless,  the  twenty  of  us.  And  there, 
under  his  purple  panoply,  nose  crooked  like  a 
Napoleonic  eagle  and  eyes  glittering  and  beady,  sat 
Sol  Glenhart. 

"John  Ambrose!'  the  clerk  called  out,  and  Chi 
Slim,  with  the  ease  of  long  practice,  stood  up. 

'Vagrant,  your   Honor,'  the  bailiff  volunteered, 


LOCAL   COLOR  53 

and  his  Honor,  not  deigning  to  look  at  the  prisoner, 
snapped,  'Ten  days/  and  Chi  Slim  sat  down. 

"And  so  it  went,  with  the  monotony  of  clock 
work,  fifteen  seconds  to  the  man,  four  men  to  the 
minute,  the  mugs  bobbing  up  and  down  in  turn 
like  marionettes.  The  clerk  called  the  name,  the 
bailiff  the  offence,  the  judge  the  sentence,  and 
the  man  sat  down.  That  was  all.  Simple,  eh  ? 
Superb  ! 

"Chi  Slim  nudged  me.  'Give  'm  a  spiel,  Cinders. 
You  kin  do  it.' 

"I  shook  my  head. 

"'G'wan/  he  urged.  'Give  'm  a  ghost  story. 
The  mugs  '11  take  it  all  right.  And  you  kin  throw 
yer  feet  fer  tobacco  for  us  till  we  get  out/ 

"'L.  C.  Randolph!'    the  clerk  called. 

"I  stood  up,  but  a  hitch  came  in  the  proceedings. 
The  clerk  whispered  to  the  judge,  and  the  bailiff 
smiled. 

"'You  are  a  newspaper  man,  I  understand,  Mr. 
Randolph?'  his  Honor  remarked  sweetly. 

"It  took  me  by  surprise,  for  I  had  forgotten  the 
Cowbell  in  the  excitement  of  succeeding  events,  and 
1  now  saw  myself  on  the  edge  of  the  pit  I  had  digged. 


54  LOCAL    COLOR 

'That's  yer  graft.     Work  it,'  Slim    prompted. 

"'It's  all  over  but  the  shouting,'  I  groaned  back, 
but  Slim,  unaware  of  the  article,  was  puzzled. 

"'Your  Honor,'  I  answered,  'when  I  can  get 
work,  that  is  my  occupation.' 

"'You  take  quite  an  interest  in  local  affairs,  I 
see.'  (Here  his  Honor  took  up  the  morning's  Cow 
bell  and  ran  his  eye  up  and  down  a  column  I  knew 
was  mine.)  'Color  is  good,'  he  commented,  an 
appreciative  twinkle  in  his  eyes;  'pictures  excellent, 
characterized  by  broad,  Sargent-like  effects.  Now 
this  .  .  .  this  judge  you  have  depicted  .  .  .  you,  ah, 
draw  from  life,  I  presume  ?' 

"Rarely,  your  Honor,'  I  answered.  'Composites, 
ideals,  rather  .  .  .  er,  types,  I  may  say.' 

"But  you  have  color,  sir,  unmistakable  color,'  he 
continued. 

'That  is  splashed  on  afterward,'  I  explained. 
'This  judge,  then,  is  not  modelled  from  life,  as 
one  might  be  led  to  believe?' 

"'No,  your  Honor.' 

"Ah,  I  see,  merely  a  type  of  judicial  wickedness  ?' 

"Nay,  more,  your  Honor,'  I  said  boldly,  'an 
ideal.' 


LOCAL    COLOR  $5 

"'Splashed    with    local    color    afterward?     Ha! 
Good !     And  may  I  venture  to  ask  how  much  you 
received  for  this  bit  of  work  ?' 
Thirty  dollars,  your  Honor.' 

"Hum,  good!'  And  his  tone  abruptly  changed. 
*  Young  man,  local  color  is  a  bad  thing.  I  find  you 
guilty  of  it  and  sentence  you  to  thirty  days'  im 
prisonment,  or,  at  your  pleasure,  impose  a  fine  of 
thirty  dollars.' 

"'Alas!'  said  I,  'I  spent  the  thirty  dollars  in 
riotous  living.' 

"'And  thirty  days  more  for  wasting  your  sub 
stance.' 

"'Next  case  !'   said  his  Honor  to  the  clerk. 

"Slim  was  stunned.  'Gee!'  he  whispered.  'Gee! 
the  push  gets  ten  days  and  you  get  sixty.  Gee ! ' 

Leith  struck  a  match,  lighted  his  dead  cigar,  and 
opened  the  book  on  his  knees.  "Returning  to  the 
original  conversation,  don't  you  find,  Anak,  that 
though  Loria  handles  the  bipartition  of  the  revenues 
with  scrupulous  care,  he  yet  omits  one  important 
factor,  namely  - 

"Yes,"  I  said  absently;   "yes." 


AMATEUR    NIGHT 


AMATEUR  NIGHT* 

THE  elevator  boy  smiled  knowingly  to  him 
self.  When  he  took  her  up,  he  had  noted 
the  sparkle  in  her  eyes,  the  color  in  her 
cheeks.  His  little  cage  had  quite  warmed  with 
the  glow  of  her  repressed  eagerness.  And  now, 
on  the  down  trip,  it  was  glacier-like.  The 
sparkle  and  the  color  were  gone.  She  was  frown 
ing,  and  what  little  he  could  see  of  her  eyes  was 
cold  and  steel-gray.  Oh,  he  knew  the  symptoms, 
he  did.  He  was  an  observer,  and  he  knew  it, 
too,  and  some  day,  when  he  was  big  enough, 
he  was  going  to  be  a  reporter,  sure.  And  in  the 
meantime  he  studied  the  procession  of  life  as  it 
streamed  up  and  down  eighteen  sky-scraper  floors 
in  his  elevator  car.  He  slid  the  door  open  for  her 
sympathetically  and  watched  her  trip  determinedly 
out  into  the  street. 

There  was   a  robustness   in    her   carriage  which 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  PILGRIM  MAGAZINE  COMPANY. 
59 


6o  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

came  of  the  soil  rather  than  of  the  city  pavement.  But 
it  was  a  robustness  in  a  finer  than  the  wonted  sense, 
a  vigorous  daintiness,  it  might  be  called,  which  gave 
an  impression  of  virility  with  none  of  the  womanly 
left  out.  It  told  of  a  heredity  of  seekers  and 
fighters,  of  people  that  worked  stoutly  with  head 
and  hand,  of  ghosts  that  reached  down  out  of  the 
misty  past  and  moulded  and  made  her  to  be  a  doer 
of  things. 

But  she  was  a  little  angry,  and  a  great  deal  hurt. 
"I  can  guess  what  you  would  tell  me,"  the  editor 
had  kindly  but  firmly  interrupted  her  lengthy  pre 
amble  in  the  long-looked-forward-to  interview  just 
ended.  "And  you  have  told  me  enough,"  he  had 
gone  on  (heartlessly,  she  was  sure,  as  she  went 
over  the  conversation  in  its  freshness).  "You  have 
done  no  newspaper  work.  You  are  undrilled,  un 
disciplined,  unhammered  into  shape.  You  have 
received  a  high-school  education,  and  possibly 
topped  it  off  with  normal  school  or  college.  You 
have  stood  well  in  English.  Your  friends  have  all 
told  you  how  cleverly  you  write,  and  how  beauti 
fully,  and  so  forth  and  so  forth.  You  think  you 
can  do  newspaper  work,  and  you  want  me  to  put 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  61 

you  on.  Well,  I  am  sorry,  but  there  are  no  open 
ings.  If  you  knew  how  crowded  - 

"But  if  there  are  no  openings,"  she  had  inter 
rupted,  in  turn,  "  how  did  those  who  are  in,  get  in  ? 
How  am  I  to  show  that  I  am  eligible  to  get  in?" 

"They  made  themselves  indispensable,"  was  the 
terse  response.  "Make  yourself  indispensable." 

"But  how  can  I,  if  I  do  not  get  the  chance?" 

"Make  your  chance." 

"But  how?"  she  had  insisted,  at  the  same  time 
privately  deeming  him  a  most  unreasonable  man. 

"How?  That  is  your  business,  not  mine,"  he 
said  conclusively,  rising  in  token  that  the  interview 
was  at  an  end.  "I  must  inform  you,  my  dear 
young  lady,  that  there  have  been  at  least  eighteen 
other  aspiring  young  ladies  here  this  week,  and 
that  I  have  not  the  time  to  tell  each  and  every  one 
of  them  how.  The  function  I  perform  on  this  paper 
is  hardly  that  of  instructor  in  a  school  of  journalism." 

She  caught  an  outbound  car,  and  ere  she  de 
scended  rrom  it  she  had  conned  the  conversation 
over  and  over  again.  "But  how?"  she  repeated 
to  herself,  as  she  climbed  the  three  flights  of  stairs 
to  the  rooms  where  she  and  her  sister  "bach'ed." 


62  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

"But  how?"  And  so  she  continued  to  put  the 
interrogation,  for  the  stubborn  Scotch  blood,  though 
many  times  removed  from  Scottish  soil,  was  still 
strong  in  her.  And,  further,  there  was  need  that 
she  should  learn  how.  Her  sister  Letty  and  she 
had  come  up  from  an  interior  town  to  the  city  to 
make  their  way  in  the  world.  John  Wyman  was 
land-poor.  Disastrous  business  enterprises  had 
burdened  his  acres  and  forced  his  two  girls,  Edna 
and  Letty,  into  doing  something  for  themselves.  A 
year  of  school-teaching  and  of  night-study  of  short 
hand  and  typewriting  had  capitalized  their  city 
project  and  fitted  them  for  the  venture,  which  same 
venture  was  turning  out  anything  but  successful. 
The  city  seemed  crowded  with  inexperienced  ste 
nographers  and  typewriters,  and  they  had  nothing 
but  their  own  inexperience  to  offer.  Edna's  secret 
ambition  had  been  journalism;  but' she  had  planned 
a  clerical  position  first,  so  that  she  might  have 
time  and  space  in  which  to  determine  where  and 
on  what  line  of  journalism  she  woula  embark. 
But  the  clerical  position  had  not  been  forthcoming, 
either  for  Letty  or  her,  and  day  by  day  their  little 
hoard  dwindled,  though  the  room  rent  remained 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  63 

normal  and  the  stove  consumed  coal  with  un- 
diminished  voracity.  And  it  was  a  slim  little 
hoard  by  now. 

"There's  Max  Irwin,"  Letty  said,  talking  it  over. 
"He's  a  journalist  with  a  national  reputation.  Go 
and  see  him,  Ed.  He  knows  how,  and  he  should  be 
able  to  tell  you  how." 

"But  I  don't  know  him,"  Edna  objected. 

"No  more  than  you  knew  the  editor  you  saw 
to-day." 

"Y-e-s,"  (long  and  judicially),  "but  that's  dif 
ferent." 

"Not  a  bit  different  from  the  strange  men  and 
women  you'll  interview  when  you've  learned  how," 
Letty  encouraged. 

"I  hadn't  looked  at  it  in  that  light,"  Edna  con 
ceded.  "After  all,  where's  the  difference  between 
interviewing  Mr.  Max  Irwin  for  some  paper,  or 
interviewing  Mr.  Max  Irwin  for  myself?  It  will  be 
practice,  too.  I'll  go  and  look  him  up  in  the 
directory." 

"Letty,  I  know  I  can  write  if  I  get  the  chance," 
she  announced  decisively  a  moment  later.  "I  just 
feel  that  I  have  the  feel  of  it,  if  you  know  what  I 


mean." 


64  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

And  Letty  knew  and  nodded.  "I  wonder  what 
he  is  like?"  she  asked  softly. 

"I'll  make  it  my  business  to  find  out,"  Edna 
assured  her;  "and  I'll  let  you  know  inside  forty- 
eight  hours." 

Letty  clapped  her  hands.  "Good!  That's  the 
newspaper  spirit !  Make  it  twenty-four  hours,  and 
you  are  perfect!" 

-  and  I  am  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  she  con 
cluded  the  statement  of  her  case  to  Max  Irwin, 
famous  war  correspondent  and  veteran  journalist. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answered,  with  a  deprecatory 
wave  of  the  hand.  "  If  you  don't  do  your  own  talk 
ing,  who's  to  do  it  for  you  ?  Now  I  understand 
your  predicament  precisely.  You  want  to  get  on 
the  Intelligencer,  you  want  to  get  on  at  once,  and 
you  have  had  no  previous  experience.  In  the  first 
place,  then,  have  you  any  pull  ?  There  are  a  dozen 
men  in  the  city,  a  line  from  whom  would  be  an  open- 
sesame.  After  that  you  would  stand  or  fall  by 
your  own  ability.  There's  Senator  Longbridge,  for 
instance,  and  Claus  Inskeep  the  street-car  magnate, 
and  Lane,  and  McChesney  — "  He  paused,  with 
voice  suspended. 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  65 

"I  am  sure  I  know  none  of  them,"  she  answered 
despondently. 

"It's  not  necessary.  Do  you  know  any  one  that 
knows  them  ?  or  any  one  that  knows  any  one  else 
that  knows  them?" 

Edna  shook  her  head. 

"Then  we  must  think  of  something  else,"  he 
went  on,  cheerfully.  "You'll  have  to  do  something 
yourself.  Let  me  see." 

He  stopped  and  thought  for  a  moment,  with 
closed  eyes  and  wrinkled  forehead.  She  was  watch 
ing  him,  studying  him  intently,  when  his  blue 
eyes  opened  with  a  snap  and  his  face  suddenly 
brightened. 

"I   have  it!     But  no,  wait   a  minute." 

And  for  a  minute  it  was  his  turn  to  study  her. 
And  study  her  he  did,  till  she  could  feel  her  cheeks 
flushing  under  his  gaze. 

"You'll  do,  I  think,  though  it  remains  to  be 
seen,"  he  said  enigmatically.  "  It  will  show  the  stuff 
that's  in  you,  besides,  and  it  will  be  a  better  claim 
upon  the  Intelligencer  people  than  all  the  lines  from 
all  the  senators  and  magnates  in  the  world.  The 
thing  for  you  is  to  do  Amateur  Night  at  the  Loops." 


66  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

"I  —  I  hardly  understand,"  Edna  said,  for 
his  suggestion  conveyed  no  meaning  to  her. 
"What  are  the  'Loops'?  and  what  is  'Amateur 
Night'?" 

"I  forgot  you  said  you  were  from  the  interior. 
But  so  much  the  better,  if  you've  only  got  the  jour 
nalistic  grip.  It  will  be  a  first  impression,  and  first 
impressions  are  always  unbiased,  unprejudiced, 
fresh,  vivid.  The  Loops  are  out  on  the  rim  of 
the  city,  near  the  Park,  —  a  place  of  diversion. 
There's  a  scenic  railway,  a  water  toboggan  slide,  a 
concert  band,  a  theatre,  wild  animals,  moving  pic 
tures,  and  so  forth  and  so  forth.  The  common 
people  go  there  to  look  at  the  animals  and 
enjoy  themselves,  and  the  other  people  go  there 
to  enjoy  themselves  by  watching  the  common 
people  enjoy  themselves.  A  democratic,  fresh- 
air-breathing,  frolicking  affair,  that's  what  the 
Loops  are. 

"But  the  theatre  is  what  concerns  you.  It's 
vaudeville.  One  turn  follows  another  —  jugglers, 
acrobats,  rubber-jointed  wonders,  fire-dancers,  coon- 
song  artists,  singers,  players,  female  impersonators, 
sentimental  soloists,  and  so  forth  and  so  forth. 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  67 

These  people  are  professional  vaudevillists.  They 
make  their  living  that  way.  Many  are  excellently 
paid.  Some  are  free  rovers,  doing  a  turn  wherever 
they  can  get  an  opening,  at  the  Obermann,  the 
Orpheus,  the  Alcatraz,  the  Louvre,  and  so  forth  and 
so  forth.  Others  cover  circuit  pretty  well  all  over 
the  country.  An  interesting  phase  of  life,  and  the 
pay  is  big  enough  to  attract  many  aspirants. 

"Now  the  management  of  the  Loops,  in  its  bid 
for  popularity,  instituted  what  is  called  'Amateur 
Night ' ;  that  is  to  say,  twice  a  week,  after  the  pro 
fessionals  have  done  their  turns,  the  stage  is  given 
over  to  the  aspiring  amateurs.  The  audience  re 
mains  to  criticise.  The  populace  becomes  the 
arbiter  of  art  —  or  it  thinks  it  does,  which  is  the 
same  thing;  and  it  pays  its  money  and  is  well  pleased 
with  itself,  and  Amateur  Night  is  a  paying  propo 
sition  to  the  management. 

"  But  the  point  of  Amateur  Night,  and  it  is  well 
to  note  it,  is  that  these  amateurs  are  not  really 
amateurs.  They  are  paid  for  doing  their  turn.  At 
the  best,  they  may  be  termed  'professional  ama 
teurs.'  It  stands  to  reason  that  the  management 
could  not  get  people  to  face  a  rampant  audience 


68  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

for  nothing,  and  on  such  occasions  the  audience 
certainly  goes  mad.  It's  great  fun  —  for  the 
audience.  But  the  thing  for  you  to  do,  and  it  re 
quires  nerve,  I  assure  you,  is  to  go  out,  make  arrange 
ments  for  two  turns,  (Wednesday  and  Saturday 
nights,  I  believe),  do  your  two  turns,  and  write  it 
up  for  the  Sunday  Intelligencer" 

"But  —  but,"  she  quavered,  "  I — I—  '  and  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  disappointment  and  tears  in  her 
voice. 

"I  see,"  he  said  kindly.  "You  were  expecting 
something  else,  something  different,  something  bet 
ter.  We  all  do  at  first.  But  remember  the  admiral 
of  the  Queen's  Na-vee,  who  swept  the  floor  and 
polished  up  the  handle  of  the  big  front  door.  You 
must  face  the  drudgery  of  apprenticeship  or  quit 
right  now.  What  do  you  say?" 

The  abruptness  with  which  he  demanded  her 
decision  startled  her.  As  she  faltered,  she  could 
see  a  shade  of  disappointment  beginning  to  darken 
his  face. 

"In  a  way  it  must  be  considered  a  test,"  he  added 
encouragingly.  "A  severe  one,  but  so  much  the 
better.  Now  is  the  time.  Are  you  game?" 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  69 

"I'll  try/'  she  said  faintly,  at  the  same  time 
making  a  note  of  the  directness,  abruptness,  and 
haste  of  these  city  men  with  whom  she  was  coming 
in  contact. 

"  Good !  Why,  when  I  started  in,  I  had  the 
dreariest,  deadliest  details  imaginable.  And  after 
that,  for  a  weary  time,  I  did  the  police  and  divorce 
courts.  But  it  all  came  well  in  the  end  and  did  me 
good.  You  are  luckier  in  making  your  start  with 
Sunday  work.  It's  not  particularly  great.  Wr^at 
of  it  ?  Do  it.  Show  the  stuff  you're  made  of,  and 
you'll  get  a  call  for  better  work  —  better  class  and 
better  pay.  Now  you  go  out  this  afternoon  to  the 
Loops,  and  engage  to  do  two  turns." 

"But  what  kind  of  turns  can  I  do  ?"  Edna  asked 
dubiously. 

"  Do  ?  That's  easy.  Can  you  sing  ?  Never 
mind,  don't  need  to  sing.  Screech,  do  anything  - 
that's  what  you're  paid  for,  to  afford  amusement, 
to  give  bad  art  for  the  populace  to  howl  down. 
And  when  you  do  your  turn,  take  some  one  along 
for  chaperon.  Be  afraid  of  no  one.  Talk  up. 
Move  about  among  the  amateurs  waiting  their  turn, 
pump  them,  study  them,  photograph  them  in  your 


70  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

brain.  Get  the  atmosphere,  the  color,  strong  color, 
lots  of  it.  Dig  right  in  with  both  hands,  and  get  the 
essence  of  it,  the  spirit,  the  significance.  What  does 
it  mean  ?  Find  out  what  it  means.  That's  what 
you're  there  for.  That's  what  the  readers  of  the 
Sunday  Intelligencer  want  to  know. 

"  Be  terse  in  style,  vigorous  of  phrase,  apt,  con 
cretely  apt,  in  similitude.  Avoid  platitudes  and 
commonplaces.  Exercise  selection.  Seize  upon 
things  salient,  eliminate  the  rest,  and  you  have  pic 
tures.  Paint  those  pictures  in  words  and  the  Intel 
ligencer  will  have  you.  Get  hold  of  a  few  back 
numbers,  and  study  the  Sunday  Intelligencer  feature 
story.  Tell  it  all  in  the  opening  paragraph  as  ad- 
yertisement  of  contents,  and  in  the  contents  tell  it 
all  over  again.  Then  put  a  snapper  at  the  end,  so 
if  they're  crowded  for  space  they  can  cut  off  your 
contents  anywhere,  re-attach  the  snapper,  and  the 
story  will  still  retain  form.  There,  that's  enough. 
Study  the  rest  out  for  yourself." 

They  both  rose  to  their  feet,  Edna  quite  carried 
away  by  his  enthusiasm  and  his  quick,  jerky  sen 
tences,  bristling  with  the  things  she  wanted  to  know. 

"And   remember,    Miss   Wyman,    if  you're    am- 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  71 

bitious,  that  the  aim  and  end  of  journalism  is  not 
the  feature  article.  Avoid  the  rut.  The  feature  is 
a  trick.  Master  it,  but  don't  let  it  master  you. 
But  master  it  you  must;  for  if  you  can't  learn  to 
do  a  feature  well,  you  can  never  expect  to  do  any 
thing  better.  In  short,  put  your  whole  self  into  it, 
and  yet,  outside  of  it,  above  it,  remain  yourself,  if 
you  follow  me.  And  now  good  luck  to  you." 

They  had  reached  the  door  and  were  shaking 
hands. 

"And  one  thing  more,"  he  interrupted  her  thanks, 
"let  me  see  your  copy  before  you  turn  it  in.  I 
may  be  able  to  put  you  straight  here  and  there." 

Edna  found  the  manager  of  the  Loops  a  full- 
fleshed,  heavy-jowled  man,  bushy  of  eyebrow  and 
generally  belligerent  of  aspect,  with  an  absent- 
minded  scowl  on  his  face  and  a  black  cigar  stuck 
in  the  midst  thereof.  Symes  was  his  name,  she 
had  learned,  Ernst  Symes. 

"Whatcher  turn?"  he  demanded,  ere  half  her 
brief  application  had  left  her  lips. 

"Sentimental  soloist,  soprano,"  she  answered 
promptly,  remembering  Irwin's  advice  to  talk  up. 


72  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

"Whatcher  name?"  Mr.  Symes  asked,  scarcely 
deigning  to  glance  at  her. 

She  hesitated.  So  rapidly  had  she  been  rushed 
into  the  adventure  that  she  had  not  considered  the 
question  of  a  name  at  all. 

"Any  name?  Stage  name?"  he  bellowed  im 
patiently. 

"Nan  Bellayne,"  she  invented  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment.  "  B-e-1-l-a-y-n-e.  Yes,  that's  it." 

He  scribbled  it  into  a  notebook.  "All  right. 
Take  your  turn  Wednesday  and  Saturday." 

"How  much  do  I  get?"    Edna  demanded. 

"Two-an'-a-half  a  turn.  Two  turns,  five.  Getcher 
pay  first  Monday  after  second  turn." 

And  without  the  simple  courtesy  of  "Good  day," 
he  turned  his  back  on  her  and  plunged  into  the 
newspaper  he  had  been  reading  when  she  entered. 

Edna  came  early  on  Wednesday  evening,  Letty 
with  her,  and  in  a  telescope  basket  her  costume  — 
a  simple  affair.  A  plaid  shawl  borrowed  from  the 
washerwoman,  a  ragged  scrubbing  skirt  borrowed 
from  the  charwoman,  and  a  gray  wig  rented  from  a 
costumer  for  twenty-five  cents  a  night,  completed 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  73 

the  outfit;  for  Edna  had  elected  to  be  an  old  Irish 
woman  singing  broken-heartedly  after  her  wander 
ing  boy. 

Though  they  had  come  early,  she  found  every 
thing  in  uproar.  The  main  performance  was  under 
way,  the  orchestra  was  playing  and  the  audience 
intermittently  applauding.  The  infusion  of  the 
amateurs  clogged  the  working  of  things  behind  the 
stage,  crowded  the  passages,  dressing  rooms,  and 
wings,  and  forced  everybody  into  everybody  else's 
way.  This  was  particularly  distasteful  to  the  pro 
fessionals,  who  carried  themselves  as  befitted  those 
of  a  higher  caste,  and  whose  behavior  toward  the 
pariah  amateurs  was  marked  by  hauteur  and  even 
brutality.  And  Edna,  bullied  and  elbowed  and 
shoved  about,  clinging  desperately  to  her  basket  and 
seeking  a  dressing  room,  took  note  of  it  all. 

A  dressing  room  she  finally  found,  jammed  with 
three  other  amateur  "ladies,"  who  were  "making 
up"  with  much  noise,  high-pitched  voices,  and 
squabbling  over  a  lone  mirror.  Her  own  make-up 
was  so  simple  that  it  was  quickly  accomplished,  and 
she  left  the  trio  of  ladies  holding  an  armed  truce 
while  they  passed  judgment  upon  her.  Letty  was 


74  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

close  at  her  shoulder,  and  with  patience  and  per 
sistence  they  managed  to  get  a  nook  in  one  of  the 
wings  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  stage. 

A  small,  dark  man,  dapper  and  debonair,  swal 
low-tailed  and  top-hatted,  was  waltzing  about  the 
stage  with  dainty,  mincing  steps,  and  in  a  thin  little 
voice  singing  something  or  other  about  somebody  or 
something  evidently  pathetic.  As  his  waning  voice 
neared  the  end  of  the  lines,  a  large  woman,  crowned 
with  an  amazing  wealth  of  blond  hair,  thrust  rudely 
past  Edna,  trod  heavily  on  her  toes,  and  shoved  her 
contemptuously  to  the  side.  "  Bloomin'  hamateur ! " 
she  hissed  as  she  went  past,  and  the  next  instant  she 
was  on  the  stage,  graciously  bowing  to  the  audience, 
while  the  small,  dark  man  twirled  extravagantly 
about  on  his  tiptoes. 

"Hello,  girls!" 

This  greeting,  drawled  with  an  inimitable  vocal 
caress  in  every  syllable,  close  in  her  ear,  caused 
Edna  to  give  a  startled  little  jump.  A  smooth 
faced,  moon-faced  young  man  was  smiling  at  her 
good-naturedly.  His  "make-up"  was  plainly  that 
of  the  stock  tramp  of  the  stage,  though  the  inevitable 
whiskers  were  lacking. 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  75 

"Oh,  it  don't  take  a  minute  to  slap  'm  on,"  he  ex 
plained,  divining  the  search  in  her  eyes  and  waving 
in  his  hand  the  adornment  in  question.  'They 
make  a  feller  sweat,"  he  explained  further.  And 
then,  "What's  yer  turn?" 

"Soprano  —  sentimental,"  she  answered,  trying 
to  be  offhand  and  at  ease. 

"Whata  you  doin'  it  for?"   he  demanded  directly. 

"For  fun;  what  else  ?"   she  countered. 

"I  just  sized  you  up  for  that  as  soon  as  I  put  eyes 
on  you.  You  ain't  graftin'  for  a  paper,  are  you  ?" 

"I  never  met  but  one  editor  in  my  life,"  she  re 
plied  evasively,  "  and  I,  he  —  well,  we  didn't  get  on 
very  well  together." 

"Hittin'  'm  for  a  job?" 

Edna  nodded  carelessly,  though  inwardly  anxious 
and  cudgelling  her  brains  for  something  to  turn  the 
conversation. 

"What  'd  he  say?" 

"That  eighteen  other  girls  had  already  been  there 
that  week." 

"Gave  you  the  icy  mit,  eh?"  The  moon-faced 
young  man  laughed  and  slapped  his  thighs.  "You 
see,  we're  kind  of  suspicious.  The  Sunday  papers  'd 


76  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

like  to  get  Amateur  Night  done  up  brown  in  a  nice 
little  package,  and  the  manager  don't  see  it  that  way. 
Gets  wild-eyed  at  the  thought  of  it." 

"And  what's  your  turn  ?"   she  asked. 

"Who?  me?  Oh,  I'm  doin'  the  tramp  act  to 
night.  I'm  Charley  Welsh,  you  know." 

She  felt  that  by  the  mention  of  his  name  he  in 
tended  to  convey  to  her  complete  enlightenment,  but 
the  best  she  could  do  was  to  say  politely,  "Oh,  is 
that  so?" 

She  wanted  to  laugh  at  the  hurt  disappointment 
which  came  into  his  face,  but  concealed  her  amuse 
ment. 

"Come,  now,"  he  said  brusquely,  "you  can't 
stand  there  and  tell  me  you've  never  heard  of 
Charley  Welsh  ?  Well,  you  must  be  young.  Why, 
I'm  an  Only,  the  Only  amateur  at  that.  Sure,  you 
must  have  seen  me.  I'm  everywhere.  I  could  be 
a  professional,  but  I  get  more  dough  out  of  it  by 
doin'  the  amateur." 

"But  what's  an  'Only'  ?"  she  queried.  "I  want 
to  learn." 

"Sure,"  Charley  Welsh  said  gallantly.  "I'll  put 
you  wise.  An  'Only'  is  a  nonpareil,  the  feller  that 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  77 

does  one  kind  of  a  turn  better' n  any  other  feller. 
He's  the  Only,  see?" 

And  Edna  saw. 

"To  get  a  line  on  the  biz,"  he  continued,  "throw 
yer  lamps  on  me.  Fm  the  Only  all-round  amateur. 
To-night  I  make  a  bluff  at  the  tramp  act.  It's 
harder  to  bluff  it  than  to  really  do  it,  but  then  it's 
acting,  it's  amateur,  it's  art.  See  ?  I  do  every 
thing,  from  Sheeny  monologue  to  team  song  and 
dance  and  Dutch  comedian.  Sure,  I'm  Charley 
Welsh,  the  Only  Charley  Welsh." 

And  in  this  fashion,  while  the  thin,  dark  man  and 
the  large,  blond  woman  warbled  dulcetly  out  on 
the  stage  and  the  other  professionals  followed  in 
their  turns,  did  Charley  Welsh  put  Edna  wise, 
giving  her  much  miscellaneous  and  superfluous  in 
formation  and  much  that  she  stored  away  for  the 
Sunday  Intelligencer. 

"Well,  tra  la  loo,"  he  said  suddenly.  "There's 
his  highness  chasin'  you  up.  Yer  first  on  the  bill. 
Never  mind  the  row  when  you  go  on.  Just  finish 
yer  turn  like  a  lady." 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Edna  felt  her  journal 
istic  ambition  departing  from  her,  and  was  aware  of 


78  AMATEUR  NIGHT 

an  overmastering  desire  to  be  somewhere  else.  But 
the  stage  manager,  like  an  ogre,  barred  her  retreat. 
She  could  hear  the  opening  bars  of  her  song  going  up 
from  the  orchestra  and  the  noises  of  the  house  dying 
away  to  the  silence  of  anticipation. 

"Go  ahead,"  Letty  whispered,  pressing  her  hand; 
and  from  the  other  side  came  the  peremptory 
"Don't  flunk!"  of  Charley  Welsh. 

But  her  feet  seemed  rooted  to  the  floor,  and  she 
leaned  weakly  against  a  shift  scene.  The  orchestra 
was  beginning  over  again,  and  a  lone  voice  from  the 
house  piped  with  startling  distinctness : 

"  Puzzle  picture  !     Find  Nannie  ! " 

A  roar  of  laughter  greeted  the  sally,  and  Edna 
shrank  back.  But  the  strong  hand  of  the  manager 
descended  on  her  shoulder,  and  with  a  quick, 
powerful  shove  propelled  her  out  on  to  the  stage. 
His  hand  and  arm  had  flashed  into  full  view,  and 
the  audience,  grasping  the  situation,  thundered  its 
appreciation.  The  orchestra  was  drowned  out  by 
the  terrible  din,  and  Edna  could  see  the  bows  scrap 
ing  away  across  the  violins,  apparently  without  sound. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  begin  in  time,  and  as 
she  patiently  waited,  arms  akimbo  and  ears  strain- 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  79 

ing  for  the  music,  the  house  let  loose  again  (a  favorite 
trick,  she  afterward  learned,  of  confusing  the  ama 
teur  by  preventing  him  or  her  from  hearing  the 
orchestra). 

But  Edna  was  recovering  her  presence  of  mind. 
She  became  aware,  pit  to  dome,  of  a  vast  sea  of 
smiling  and  fun-distorted  faces,  of  vast  roars  of 
laughter,  rising  wave  on  wave,  and  then  her  Scotch 
blood  went  cold  and  angry.  The  hard-working  but 
silent  orchestra  gave  her  the  cue,  and,  without 
making  a  sound,  she  began  to  move  her  lips,  stretch 
forth  her  arms,  and  sway  her  body,  as  though  she 
were  really  singing.  The  noise  in  the  house  re 
doubled  in  the  attempt  to  drown  her  voice,  but  she 
serenely  went  on  with  her  pantomime.  This  seemed 
to  continue  an  interminable  time,  when  the  audience, 
tiring  of  its  prank  and  in  order  to  hear,  suddenly 
stilled  its  clamor,  and  discovered  the  dumb  show 
she  had  been  making.  For  a  moment  all  was  silent, 
save  for  the  orchestra,  her  lips  moving  on  without 
a  sound,  and  then  the  audience  realized  that  it 
had  been  sold,  and  broke  out  afresh,  this  time 
with  genuine  applause  in  acknowledgment  of  her 
victory.  She  chose  this  as  the  happy  moment 


8o  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

for  her  exit,  and  with  a  bow  and  a  backward  re 
treat,  she  was  off  the  stage  in  Letty's  arms. 

The  worst  was  past,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  evening 
she  moved  about  among  the  amateurs  and  profes 
sionals,  talking,  listening,  observing,  finding  out  what 
it  meant  and  taking  mental  notes  of  it  all.  Charley 
Welsh  constituted  himself  her  preceptor  and  guard 
ian  angel,  and  so  well  did  he  perform  the  self- 
allotted  task  that  when  it  was  all  over  she  felt  fully 
prepared  to  write  her  article.  But  the  proposition 
had  been  to  do  two  turns,  and  her  native  pluck 
forced  her  to  live  up  to  it.  Also,  in  the  course  of 
the  intervening  days,  she  discovered  fleeting  im 
pressions  that  required  verification;  so,  on  Saturday, 
she  was  back  again,  with  her  telescope  basket  and 
Letty. 

The  manager  seemed  looking  for  her,  and  she 
caught  an  expression  of  relief  in  his  eyes  when  he 
first  saw  her.  He  hurried  up,  greeted  her,  and 
bowed  with  a  respect  ludicrously  at  variance  with 
his  previous  ogre-like  behavior.  And  as  he  bowed, 
across  his  shoulders  she  saw  Charley  Welsh  de 
liberately  wink. 

But  the  surprise  had  just  begun.     The  manager 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  81 

< 

begged  to  be  introduced  to  her  sister,  chatted  enter 
tainingly  with  the  pair  of  them,  and  strove  greatly 
and  anxiously  to  be  agreeable.  He  even  went  so 
far  as  to  give  Edna  a  dressing  room  to  herself,  to 
the  unspeakable  envy  of  the  three  other  amateur 
ladies  of  previous  acquaintance.  Edna  was  non 
plussed,  and  it  was  not  till  she  met  Charley  Welsh 
in  the  passage  that  light  was  thrown  on  the  mystery. 

"Hello  !"  he  greeted  her.  "On  Easy  Street,  eh  ? 
Everything  slidin'  your  way." 

She  smiled  brightly. 

"Thinks  yer  a  female  reporter,  sure.  I  almost 
split  when  I  saw  'm  layin'  himself  out  sweet  an' 
pleasin'.  Honest,  now,  that  ain't  yer  graft,  is  it?" 

"I  told  you  my  experience  with  editors,"  she 
parried.  "And  honest  now,  it  was  honest,  too." 

But  the  Only  Charley  Welsh  shook  his  head 
dubiously.  "Not  that  I  care  a  rap,"  he  declared. 
"And  if  you  are,  just  gimme  a  couple  of  lines  of 
notice,  the  right  kind,  good  ad,  you  know.  And  if 
yer  not,  why  yer  all  right  anyway.  Yer  not  our 
class,  that's  straight." 

After  her  turn,  which  she  did  this  time  with  the 
nerve  of  an  old  campaigner,  the  manager  returned 


82  AMATEUR    NIGHT 

to  the  charge;  and  after  saying  nice  things  and 
being  generally  nice  himself,  he  came  to  the  point. 

"You'll  treat  us  well,  I  hope,"  he  said  insinu 
atingly.  "Do  the  right  thing  by  us,  and  all 
that?" 

"Oh,"  she  answered  innocently,  "you  couldn't 
persuade  me  to  do  another  turn;  I  know  I  seemed  to 
take  and  that  you'd  like  to  have  me,  but  I  really, 
really  can't." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,"  he  said,  with  a  touch 
of  his  old  bulldozing  manner. 

"No,  I  really  won't,"  she  persisted.  "Vaude 
ville's  too  —  too  wearing  on  the  nerves,  my  nerves, 
at  any  rate." 

Whereat  he  looked  puzzled  and  doubtful,  and 
forbore  to  press  the  point  further. 

But  on  Monday  morning,  when  she  came  to  his 
office  to  get  her  pay  for  the  two  turns,  it  was  he 
who  puzzled  her. 

"You  surely  must  have  mistaken  me,"  he  lied 
glibly.  "I  remember  saying  something  about  pay 
ing  your  car  fare.  We  always  do  this,  you  know, 
but  we  never,  never  pay  amateurs.  That  would 
take  the  life  and  sparkle  out  of  the  whole  thing. 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  83 

No,  Charley  Welsh  was  stringing  you.  He  gets 
paid  nothing  for  his  turns.  No  amateur  gets  paid. 
The  idea  is  ridiculous.  However,  here's  fifty  cents. 
It  will  pay  your  sister's  carfare  also.  And,"  -very 
suavely,-  "speaking  for  the  Loops,  permit  me  to 
thank  you  for  the  kind  and  successful  contribution 
of  your  services." 

That  afternoon,  true  to  her  promise  to  Max  Irwin, 
she  placed  her  typewritten  copy  into  his  hands. 
And  while  he  ran  over  it,  he  nodded  his  head  from 
time  to  time,  and  maintained  a  running  fire  of 
commendatory  remarks:  "Good!  —  that's  it ! - 
that's  the  stuff!  —  psychology's  all  right!  —  the 
very  idea  !  —  you've  caught  it !  -  -  excellent !  — . 
missed  it  a  bit  here,  but  it'll  go  —  that's  vigorous  ! 
— -  strong  !  —  vivid  !  —  pictures  !  pictures  !  —  excel 
lent  !  —  most  excellent !  " 

And  when  he  had  run  down  to  the  bottom  of  the 
last  page,  holding  out  his  hand:  "My  dear  Miss 
Wyman,  I  congratulate  you.  I  must  say  you  have 
exceeded  my  expectations,  which,  to  say  the  least, 
were  large.  You  are  a  journalist,  a  natural  jour 
nalist.  You've  got  the  grip,  and  you're  sure  to  get 
on.  The  Intelligencer  will  take  it,  without  doubt, 


84  AMATEUR   NIGHT 

and  take  you  too.  They'll  have  to  take  you.  If 
they  don't,  some  of  the  other  papers  will  get 
you." 

"But  what's  this?"  he  queried,  the  next  instant, 
his  face  going  serious.  "  You've  said  nothing  about 
receiving  the  pay  for  your  turns,  and  that's  one  of 
the  points  of  the  feature.  I  expressly  mentioned  it, 
if  you'll  remember." 

"It  will  never  do,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head 
ominously,  when  she  had  explained.  "You  simply 
must  collect  that  money  somehow.  Let  me  see. 
Let  me  think  a  moment." 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Irwin,"  she  said.  "I've 
bothered  you  enough.  Let  me  use  your  'phone, 
please,  and  I'll  try  Mr.  Ernst  Symes  again." 

He  vacated  his  chair  by  the  desk,  and  Edna  took 
down  the  receiver. 

"Charley  Welsh  is  sick,"  she  began,  when  the 
connection  had  been  made.  "What?  No!  I'm 
not  Charley  Welsh.  Charley  Welsh  is  sick,  and  his 
sister  wants  to  know  if  she  can  come  out  this  after 
noon  and  draw  his  pay  for  him?" 

"Tell  Charley  Welsh's  sister  that  Charley  Welsh 
was  out  this  morning,  and  drew  his  own  pay," 


AMATEUR   NIGHT  85 

came  back  the  manager's  familiar  tones,  crisp 
with  asperity. 

"All  right,"  Edna  went  on.  "And  now  Nan 
Bellayne  wants  to  know  if  she  and  her  sister  can 
come  out  this  afternoon  and  draw  Nan  Bellayne's 
pay?" 

"  What'd  he  say  ?  What'd  he  say  ?"  Max  Irwin 
cried  excitedly,  as  she  hung  up. 

"That  Nan  Bellayne  was  too  much  for  him,  and 
that  she  and  her  sister  could  come  out  and  get  her 
pay  and  the  freedom  of  the  Loops,  to  boot." 

"One  thing  more,"  he  interrupted  her  thanks  at 
the  door,  as  on  her  previous  visit.  "Now  that  you've 
shown  the  stuff  you're  made  of,  I  should  esteem  it, 
ahem,  a  privilege  to  give  you  a  line  myself  to  the 
Intelligencer  people." 


THE    MINIONS    OF    MIDAS 


THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS* 

WADE  ATSHELER  is  dead  —  dead  by  his 
own  hand.  To  say  that  this  was  entirely 
unexpected  by  the  small  coterie  which  knew 
him,  would  be  to  say  an  untruth ;  and  yet  never  once 
had  we,  his  intimates,  ever  canvassed  the  idea. 
Rather  had  we  been  prepared  for  it  in  some  incom 
prehensible  subconscious  way.  Before  the  per 
petration  of  the  deed,  its  possibility  was  remotest 
from  our  thoughts;  but  when  we  did  know  that  he 
was  dead,  it  seemed,  somehow,  that  we  had  under 
stood  and  looked  forward  to  it  all  the  time.  This, 
by  retrospective  analysis,  we  could  easily  explain  by 
the  fact  of  his  great  trouble.  I  use  "great  trouble" 
advisedly.  Young,  handsome,  with  an  assured 
position  as  the  right-hand  man  of  Eben  Hale,  the 
great  street-railway  magnate,  there  could  be  no 
reason  for  him  to  complain  of  fortune's  favors.  Yet 
we  had  watched  his  smooth  brow  furrow  and 
corrugate  as  under  some  carking  care  or  devouring 
sorrow.  We  had  watched  his  thick,  black  hair 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY  PEARSON  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 
89 


90  THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 

thin  and  silver  as  green  grain  under  brazen  skies 
and  parching  drought.  Who  can  forget,  in  the 
midst  of  the  hilarious  scenes  he  toward  the  last 
sought  with  greater  and  greater  avidity  —  who  can 
forget,  I  say,  the  deep  abstractions  and  black  moods 
into  which  he  fell  ?  At  such  times,  when  the  fun 
rippled  and  soared  from  height  to  height,  suddenly, 
without  rhyme  or  reason,  his  eyes  would  turn  lack 
lustre,  his  brows  knit,  as  with  clenched  hands 
and  face  overshot  with  spasms  of  mental  pain  he 
wrestled  on  the  edge  of  the  abyss  with  some  unknown 
danger. 

He  never  spoke  of  his  trouble,  nor  were  we  indis 
creet  enough  to  ask.  But  it  was  just  as  well;  for 
had  we,  and  had  he  spoken,  our  help  and  strength 
could  have  availed  nothing.  When  Eben  Hale 
died,  whose  confidential  secretary  he  was  —  nay, 
well-nigh  adopted  son  and  full  business  partner  — 
he  no  longer  came  among  us.  Not,  as  I  now  know, 
that  our  company  was  distasteful  to  him,  but  be 
cause  his  trouble  had  so  grown  that  he  could  not 
respond  to  our  happiness  nor  find  surcease  with  us. 
Why  this  should  be  so  we  could  not  at  the  time 
understand,  for  when  Eben  Hale's  will  was  pro- 


THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  91 

bated,  the  world  learned  that  he  was  sole  heir  to  his 
employer's  many  millions,  and  it  was  expressly 
stipulated  that  this  great  inheritance  was  given  to 
him  without  qualification,  hitch,  or  hindrance  in 
the  exercise  thereof.  Not  a  share  of  stock,  not  a 
penny  of  cash,  was  bequeathed  to  the  dead  man's 
relatives.  As  for  his  direct  family,  one  astounding 
clause  expressly  stated  that  Wade  Atsheler  was  to 
dispense  to  Eben  Hale's  wife  and  sons  and  daughters 
whatever  moneys  his  judgment  dictated,  at  what 
ever  times  he  deemed  advisable.  Had  there  been 
any  scandal  in  the  dead  man's  family,  or  had  his 
sons  been  wild  or  undutiful,  then  there  might  have 
been  a  glimmering  of  reason  in  this  most  unusual 
action;  but  Eben  Hale's  domestic  happiness  had 
been  proverbial  in  the  community,  and  one  would 
have  to  travel  far  and  wide  to  discover  a  cleaner, 
saner,  wholesomer  progeny  of  sons  and  daughters. 
While  his  wife  —  well,  by  those  who  knew  her  best 
she  was  endearingly  termed  "The  Mother  of  the 
Gracchi."  Needless  to  state,  this  inexplicable 
will  was  a  nine  days'  wonder;  but  the  expectant 
public  was  disappointed  in  that  no  contest  was 
made. 


92  THE   MINIONS   OF   MIDAS 

It  was  only  the  other  day  that  Eben  Hale  was 
laid  away  in  his  stately  marble  mausoleum.  And 
now  Wade  Atsheler  is  dead.  The  news  was  printed 
in  this  morning's  paper.  I  have  just  received 
through  the  mail  a  letter  from  him,  posted,  evidently, 
but  a  short  hour  before  he  hurled  himself  into  eternity. 
This  letter,  which  lies  before  me,  is  a  narrative  in 
his  own  handwriting,  linking  together  numerous 
newspaper  clippings  and  facsimiles  of  letters.  The 
original  correspondence,  he  has  told  me,  is  in  the 
hands  of  the  police.  He  has  begged  me,  also,  as  a 
warning  to  society  against  a  most  frightful  and 
diabolical  danger  which  threatens  its  very  existence, 
to  make  public  the  terrible  series  of  tragedies  in 
which  he  has  been  innocently  concerned.  I  here 
with  append  the  text  in  full: 

It  was  in  August,  1899,  just  after  my  return  from 
my  summer  vacation,  that  the  blow  fell.  We  did 
not  know  it  at  the  time;  we  had  not  yet  learned  to 
school  our  minds  to  such  awful  possibilities.  Mr. 
Hale  opened  the  letter,  read  it,  and  tossed  it  upon 
my  desk  with  a  laugh.  When  I  had  looked  it  over, 
I  also  laughed,  saying,  "Some  ghastly  joke,  Mr. 


THE   MINIONS   OF   MIDAS  93 

Hale,  and  one  in  very  poor  taste."  Find  here,  my 
dear  John,  an  exact  duplicate  of  the  letter  in 
question. 

OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  OF  M., 
August  17,  1899. 

MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir,  —  We  desire  you  to  realize  upon  what 
ever  portion  of  your  vast  holdings  is  necessary  to 
obtain,  in  cash,  twenty  millions  of  dollars.  This  sum 
we  require  you  to  pay  over  to  us,  or  to  our  agents. 
You  will  note  we  do  not  specify  any  given  time,  for 
it  is  not  our  wish  to  hurry  you  in  this  matter.  You 
may  even,  if  it  be  easier  for  you,  pay  us  in  ten,  fifteen, 
or  twenty  instalments ;  but  we  will  accept  no  single 
instalment  of  less  than  a  million. 

Believe  us,  dear  Mr.  Hale,  when  we  say  that  we 
embark  upon  this  course  of  action  utterly  devoid  of 
animus.  We  are  members  of  that  intellectual  prole 
tariat,  the  increasing  numbers  of  which  mark  in 
red  lettering  the  last  days  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
We  have,  from  a  thorough  study  of  economics,  de 
cided  to  enter  upon  this  business.  It  has  many 
merits,  chief  among  which  may  be  noted  that  we 


94  THE   MINIONS   OF   MIDAS 

can  indulge  in  large  and  lucrative  operations  with 
out  capital.  So  far,  we  have  been  fairly  successful, 
and  we  hope  our  dealings  with  you  may  be  pleasant 
and  satisfactory. 

Pray  attend  while  we  explain  our  views  more 
fully.  At  the  base  of  the  present  system  of  society 
is  to  be  found  the  property  right.  And  this  right 
of  the  individual  to  hold  property  is  demonstrated, 
in  the  last  analysis,  to  rest  solely  and  wholly 
upon  might.  The  mailed  gentlemen  of  William 
the  Conqueror  divided  and  apportioned  England 
amongst  themselves  with  the  naked  sword.  This, 
we  are  sure  you  will  grant,  is  true  of  all  feudal 
possessions.  With  the  invention  of  steam  and 
the  Industrial  Revolution  there  came  into  existence 
the  Capitalist  Class,  in  the  modern  sense  of  the 
word.  These  capitalists  quickly  towered  above 
the  ancient  nobility.  The  captains  of  industry 
have  virtually  dispossessed  the  descendants  of  the 
captains  of  war.  Mind,  and  not  muscle,  wins  in 
to-day's  struggle  for  existence.  But  this  state  of 
affairs  is  none  the  less  based  upon  might.  The 
change  has  been  qualitative.  The  old-time  Feudal 
Baronage  ravaged  the  world  with  fire  and  sword; 


THE   MINIONS   OF   MIDAS  95 

the  modern  Money  Baronage  exploits  the  world 
•  by  mastering  and  applying  the  world's  economic 
forces.  Brain,  and  not  brawn,  endures;  and  those 
best  fitted  to  survive  are  the  intellectually  and  com 
mercially  powerful. 

We,  the  M.  of  M.,  are  not  content  to  become 
wage  slaves.  The  great  trusts  and  business  com 
binations  (with  which  you  have  your  rating)  prevent 
us  from  rising  to  the  place  among  you  which  our 
intellects  qualify  us  to  occupy.  Why  ?  Because 
we  are  without  capital.  We  are  of  the  unwashed,  but 
with  this  difference :  our  brains  are  of  the  best,  and 
we  have  no  foolish  ethical  nor  social  scruples.  As 
wage  slaves,  toiling  early  and  late,  and  living  abste 
miously,  we  could  not  save  in  threescore  years  —  nor 
in  twenty  times  threescore  years  —  a  sum  of  money 
sufficient  successfully  to  cope  with  the  great  aggre 
gations  of  massed  capital  which  now  exist.  Never 
theless,  we  have  entered  the  arena.  We  now  throw 
down  the  gage  to  the  capital  of  the  world.  Whether 
it  wishes  to  fight  or  not,  it  shall  have  to  fight. 

Mr.  Hale,  our  interests  dictate  us  to  demand  of 
you  twenty  millions  of  dollars.  While  we  are  consid 
erate  enough  to  give  you  reasonable  time  in  which  to 


96  THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 

carry  out  your  share  of  the  transaction,  please  do 
not  delay  too  long.  When  you  have  agreed  to  our 
terms,  insert  a  suitable  notice  in  the  agony  column 
of  the  "Morning  Blazer."  We  shall  then  acquaint 
you  with  our  plan  for  transferring  the  sum  men 
tioned.  You  had  better  do  this  some  time  prior  to 
October  ist.  If  you  do  not,  in  order  to  show 
that  we  are  in  earnest  we  shall  on  that  date  kill  a 
man  on  East  Thirty-ninth  Street.  He  will  be  a 
workingman.  This  man  you  do  not  know;  nor  do 
we.  You  represent  a  force  in  modern  society;  we 
also  represent  a  force  —  a  new  force.  Without 
anger  or  malice,  we  have  closed  in  battle.  As 
you  will  readily  discern,  we  are  simply  a  business 
proposition.  You  are  the  upper,  and  we  the  nether, 
millstone;  this  man's  life  shall  be  ground  out  be 
tween.  You  may  save  him  if  you  agree  to  our  con 
ditions  and  act  in  time. 

There  was  once  a  king  cursed  with  a  golden  touch. 
His  name  we  have  taken  to  do  duty  as  our  official 
seal.  Some  day,  to  protect  ourselves  against  com 
petitors,  we  shall  copyright  it. 

We  beg  to  remain, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 


THE   MINIONS   OF   MIDAS  97 

I  leave  it  to  you,  dear  John,  why  should  we  not 
have  laughed  over  such  a  preposterous  communi 
cation  ?  The  idea,  we  could  not  but  grant,  was 
well  conceived,  but  it  was  too  grotesque  to  be 
taken  seriously.  Mr.  Hale  said  he  would  preserve 
it  as  a  literary  curiosity,  and  shoved  it  away  in  a 
pigeonhole.  Then  we  promptly  forgot  its  existence. 
And  as  promptly,  on  the  ist  of  October,  going  over 
the  morning  mail,  we  read  the  following: 

OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  OF  M., 
October  I,    1899. 

MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir,  —  Your  victim  has  met  his  fate.  An 
hour  ago,  on  East  Thirty-ninth  Street,  a  working- 
man  was  thrust  through  the  heart  with  a  knife.  Ere 
you  read  this  his  body  will  be  lying  at  the  Morgue. 
Go  and  look  upon  your  handiwork. 

On  October  I4th,  in  token  of  our  earnestness  in 
this  matter,  and  in  case  you  do  not  relent,  we  shall 
kill  a  policeman  on  or  near  the  corner  of  Polk  Street 
and  Clermont  Avenue. 

Very  cordially, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 


98  THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 

Again  Mr.  Hale  laughed.  His  mind  was  full  of 
a  prospective  deal  with  a  Chicago  syndicate  for  the 
sale  of  all  his  street  railways  in  that  city,  and  so  he 
went  on  dictating  to  the  stenographer,  never  giving 
it  a  second  thought.  But  somehow,  I  know  not  why, 
a  heavy  depression  fell  upon  me.  What  if  it  were  not 
a  joke,  I  asked  myself,  and  turned  involuntarily 
to  the  morning  paper.  There  it  was,  as  befitted  an 
obscure  person  of  the  lower  classes,  a  paltry  half- 
dozen  lines  tucked  away  in  a  corner,  next  a  patent 
medicine  advertisement : 

Shortly  after  five  o'clock  this  morning,  on  East 
Thirty-ninth  Street,  a  laborer  named  Pete  Lascalle, 
while  on  his  way  to  work,  was  stabbed  to  the  heart 
by  an  unknown  assailant,  who  escaped  by  run 
ning.  The  police  have  been  unable  to  discover  any 
motive  for  the  murder. 

"Impossible!"  was  Mr.  Hale's  rejoinder,  when 
I  had  read  the  item  aloud ;  but  the  incident  evidently 
weighed  upon  his  mind,  for  late  in  the  afternoon,  with 
many  epithets  denunciatory  of  his  foolishness,  he  asked 
me  to  acquaint  the  police  with  the  affair.  I  had  the 


THE    MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  99 

pleasure  of  being  laughed  at  in  the  Inspector's  private 
office,  although  I  went  away  with  the  assurance  that 
they  would  look  into  it  and  that  the  vicinity  of  Polk 
and  Clermont  would  be  doubly  patrolled  on  the  night 
mentioned.  There  it  dropped,  till  the  two  weeks 
had  sped  by,  when  the  following  note  came  to  us 
through  the  mail: 

OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  OF  M., 
October  15,  1899. 

MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir, — Your  second  victim  has  fallen  on 
schedule  time.  We  are  in  no  hurry;  but  to  increase 
the  pressure  we  shall  henceforth  kill  weekly.  To 
protect  ourselves  against  police  interference  we  shall 
hereafter  inform  you  of  the  event  but  a  little  prior 
to  or  simultaneously  with  the  deed.  Trusting  this 
finds  you  in  good  health, 
We  are, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 

This  time  Mr.  Hale  took  up  the  paper,  and  after 
a  brief  search,  read  to  me  this  account: 


ioo  THE   MINIONS   OF  MIDAS 

A  DASTARDLY  CRIME 

Joseph  Donahue,  assigned  only  last  night  to 
special  patrol  duty  in  the  Eleventh  Ward,  at  mid 
night  was  shot  through  the  brain  and  instantly  killed. 
The  tragedy  was  enacted  in  the  full  glare  of  the 
street  lights  on  the  corner  of  Polk  Street  and  Cler- 
mont  Avenue.  Our  society  is  indeed  unstable  when 
the  custodians  of  its  peace  are  thus  openly  and 
wantonly  shot  down.  The  police  have  so  far  been 
unable  to  obtain  the  slightest  clue. 

Barely  had  he  finished  this  when  the  police  arrived 
-the  Inspector  himself  and  two  of  his  keenest 
sleuths.  Alarm  sat  upon  their  faces,  and  it  was 
plain  that  they  were  seriously  perturbed.  Though 
the  facts  were  so  few  and  simple,  we  talked  long, 
going  over  the  affair  again  and  again.  When 
the  Inspector  went  away,  he  confidently  assured 
us  that  everything  would  soon  be  straightened 
out  and  the  assassins  run  to  earth.  In  the 
meantime  he  thought  it  well  to  detail  guards  for 
the  protection  of  Mr.  Hale  and  myself,  and  sev 
eral  more  to  be  constantly  on  the  vigil  about 


THE   MINIONS    OF ' -MfH>AS  "    'rtt'ti&t 

the  house  and  grounds.  After  the  lapse  of  a  week, 
at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  this  telegram  was 
received : 

OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  OF  M., 

October  21,  1899. 
MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir, — We  are  sorry  to  note  how  completely 
you  have  misunderstood  us.  You  have  seen  fit  to 
surround  yourself  and  household  with  armed  guards, 
as  though,  forsooth,  we  were  common  criminals,  apt 
to  break  in  upon  you  and  wrest  away  by  force  your 
twenty  millions.  Believe  us,  this  is  farthest  from 
our  intention. 

You  will  readily  comprehend,  after  a  little  sober 
thought,  that  your  life  is  dear  to  us.  Do  not  be 
afraid.  We  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world.  It 
is  our  policy  to  cherish  you  tenderly  and  protect  you 
from  all  harm.  Your  death  means  nothing  to  us. 
If  it  did,  rest  assured  that  we  would  not  hesitate  a 
moment  in  destroying  you.  Think  this  over,  Mr. 
Hale.  When  you  have  paid  us  our  price,  there  will 
be  need  of  retrenchment.  Dismiss  your  guards  now, 
and  cut  down  your  expenses. 


«fe--  teE  MINIONS   OF   MIDAS 


Within  ten  minutes  of  the  time  you  receive  this  a 
nurse-girl  will  have  been  choked  to  death  in  Brent- 
wood  Park.  The  body  may  be  found  in  the  shrub 
bery  lining  the  path  which  leads  off  to  the  left  from 
the  band-stand. 

Cordially  yours, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 

The  next  instant  Mr.  Hale  was  at  the  telephone, 
warning  the  Inspector  of  the  impending  murder. 
The  Inspector  excused  himself  in  order  to  call  up 
Police  Sub-station  F  and  despatch  men  to  the  scene. 
Fifteen  minutes  later  he  rang  us  up  and  informed  us 
that  the  body  had  been  discovered,  yet  warm,  in 
the  place  indicated.  That  evening  the  papers 
teemed  with  glaring  Jack-the-Strangler  headlines, 
denouncing  the  brutality  of  the  deed  and  complaining 
about  the  laxity  of  the  police.  We  were  also  closeted 
with  the  Inspector,  who  begged  us  by  all  means  to 
keep  the  affair  secret.  Success,  he  said,  depended 
upon  silence. 

As  you  know,  John,  Mr.  Hale  was  a  man  of  iron. 
He  refused  to  surrender.  But,  oh,  John,  it  was 
terrible,  nay,  horrible  —  this  awful  something,  this 


THE    MINIONS   OF   MIDAS  103 

blind  force  in  the  dark.  We  could  not  fight,  could 
not  plan,  could  do  nothing  save  hold  our  hands  and 
wait.  And  week  by  week,  as  certain  as  the  rising  of 
the  sun,  came  the  notification  and  death  of  some  per 
son,  man  or  woman,  innocent  of  evil,  but  just  as 
much  killed  by  us  as  though  we  had  done  it  with 
our  own  hands.  A  word  from  Mr.  Hale  and  the 
slaughter  would  have  ceased.  But  he  hardened  his 
heart  and  waited,  the  lines  deepening,  the  mouth  and 
eyes  growing  sterner  and  firmer,  and  the  face  aging 
with  the  hours.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  speak 
of  my  own  suffering  during  that  frightful  period. 
Find  here  the  letters  and  telegrams  of  the  M.  of  M., 
and  the  newspaper  accounts,  etc.,  of  the  various 
murders. 

You  will  notice  also  the  letters  warning  Mr.  Hale 
of  certain  machinations  of  commercial  enemies  and 
secret  manipulations  of  stock.  The  M.  of  M. 
seemed  to  have  its  hand  on  the  inner  pulse  of 
the  business  and  financial  world.  They  possessed 
themselves  of  and  forwarded  to  us  information 
which  our  agents  could  not  obtain.  One  timely 
note  from  them,  at  a  critical  moment  in  a  certain 
deal,  saved  all  of  five  millions  to  Mr.  Hale.  At 


104  THE   MINIONS   OF  MIDAS 

another  time  they  sent  us  a  telegram  which  prob 
ably  was  the  means  of  preventing  an  anarchist 
crank  from  taking  my  employer's  life.  We 
captured  the  man  on  his  arrival  and  turned 
him  over  to  the  police,  who  found  upon  him 
enough  of  a  new  and  powerful  explosive  to  sink 
a  battleship. 

We  persisted.  Mr.  Hale  was  grit  clear  through. 
He  disbursed  at  the  rate  of  one  hundred  thou 
sand  per  week  for  secret  service.  The  aid  of  the 
Pinkertons  and  of  countless  private  detective 
agencies  was  called  in,  and  in  addition  to  this 
thousands  were  upon  our  payroll.  Our  agents 
swarmed  everywhere,  in  all  guises,  penetrating 
all  classes  of  society.  They  grasped  at  a  myriad 
clues;  hundreds  of  suspects  were  jailed,  and  at 
various  times  thousands  of  suspicious  persons 
were  under  surveillance,  but  nothing  tangible  came 
to  light.  With  its  communications  the  M.  of 
M.  continually  changed  its  method  of  delivery. 
And  every  messenger  they  sent  us  was  arrested 
forthwith.  But  these  inevitably  proved  to  be  inno 
cent  individuals,  while  their  descriptions  of  the 
persons  who  had  employed  them  for  the  errand 


THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  105 

never  tallied.     On   the   last   day   of   December  we 
received  this  notification: 

OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  OF  M., 

December  31,  1899. 
MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir,  — -  Pursuant  of  our  policy,  with  which 
we  flatter  ourselves  you  are  already  well  versed,  we 
beg  to  state  that  we  shall  give  a  passport  from  this 
Vale  of  Tears  to  Inspector  Eying,  with  whom,  be 
cause  of  our  attentions,  you  have  become  so  well 
acquainted.  It  is  his  custom  to  be  in  his  private 
office  at  this  hour.  Even  as  you  read  this  he 
breathes  his  last. 

Cordially  yours, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 

I  dropped  the  letter  and  sprang  to  the  telephone. 
Great  was  my  relief  when  I  heard  the  Inspector's 
hearty  voice.  But,  even  as  he  spoke,  his  voice  died 
away  in  the  receiver  to  a  gurgling  sob,  and  I  heard 
faintly  the  crash  of  a  falling  body.  Then  a  strange 
voice  hello'd  me,  sent  me  the  regards  of  the  M.  of 
M.,  and  broke  the  switch.  Like  a  flash  I  called  up 
the  public  office  of  the  Central  Police,  telling  them 


io6  THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 

to  go  at  once  to  the  Inspector's  aid  in  his  private 
office.  I  then  held  the  line,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
received  the  intelligence  that  he  had  been  found 
bathed  in  his  own  blood  and  breathing  his  last. 
There  were  no  eyewitnesses,  and  no  trace  was  dis 
coverable  of  the  murderer. 

Whereupon  Mr.  Hale  immediately  increased  his 
secret  service  till  a  quarter  of  a  million  flowed  weekly 
from  his  coffers.  He  was  determined  to  win  out. 
His  graduated  rewards  aggregated  over  ten  mil 
lions.  You  have  a  fair  idea  of  his  resources  and  you 
can  see  in  what  manner  he  drew  upon  them.  It  was 
the  principle,  he  affirmed,  that  he  was  fighting  for, 
not  the  gold.  And  it  must  be  admitted  that  his 
course  proved  the  nobility  of  his  motive.  The 
police  departments  of  all  the  great  cities  cooperated, 
and  even  the  United  States  Government  stepped  in, 
and  the  affair  became  one  of  the  highest  questions 
of  state.  Certain  contingent  funds  of  the  nation 
were  devoted  to  the  unearthing  of  the  M.  of  M., 
and  every  government  agent  was  on  the  alert.  But 
all  in  vain.  The  Minions  of  Midas  carried  on  their 
damnable  work  unhampered.  They  had  their  way 
and  struck  unerringly. 


THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  107 

But  while  he  fought  to  the  last,  Mr.  Hale  could 
not  wash  his  hands  of  the  blood  with  which  they 
were  dyed.  Though  not  technically  a  murderer, 
though  no  jury  of  his  peers  would  ever  have  con 
victed  him,  none  the  less  the  death  of  every  individ 
ual  was  due  to  him.  As  I  said  before,  a  word 
from  him  and  the  slaughter  would  have  ceased. 
But  he  refused  to  give  that  word.  He  insisted  that 
the  integrity  of  society  was  assailed ;  that  he  was  not 
sufficiently  a  coward  to  desert  his  post;  and  that 
it  was  manifestly  just  that  a  few  should  be  mar 
tyred  for  the  ultimate  welfare  of  the  many.  Never 
theless  this  blood  was  upon  his  head,  and  he  sank 
into  deeper  and  deeper  gloom.  I  was  likewise 
whelmed  with  the  guilt  of  an  accomplice.  Babies 
were  ruthlessly  killed,  children,  aged  men;  and 
not  only  were  these  murders  local,  but  they  were 
distributed  over  the  country.  In  the  middle  of 
February,  one  evening,  as  we  sat  in  the  library, 
there  came  a  sharp  knock  at  the  door.  On  re 
sponding  to  it  I  found,  lying  on  the  carpet  of  the 
corridor,  the  following  missive: 


io8  THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 

OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  OF  M., 

February  15,  1900. 
MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir,  —  Does  not  your  soul  cry  out  upon  the 
red  harvest  it  is  reaping  ?  Perhaps  we  have  been 
too  abstract  in  conducting  our  business.  Let  us 
now  be  concrete.  Miss  Adelaide  Laidlaw  is  a 
talented  young  woman,  as  good,  we  understand,  as 
she  is  beautiful.  She  is  the  daughter  of  your  old 
friend,  Judge  Laidlaw,  and  we  happen  to  know  that 
you  carried  her  in  your  arms  when  she  was  an 
infant.  She  is  your  daughter's  closest  friend,  and  at 
present  is  visiting  her.  When  your  eyes  have  read 
thus  far  her  visit  will  have  terminated. 
Very  cordially, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 

My  God !  did  we  not  instantly  realize  the  terrible 
import !  We  rushed  through  the  day-rooms  —  she 
was  not  there  —  and  on  to  her  own  apartments. 
The  door  was  locked,  but  we  crashed  it  down  by 
hurling  ourselves  against  it.  There  she  lay,  just  as 
she  had  finished  dressing  for  the  opera,  smothered 
with  pillows  torn  from  the  couch,  the  flush  of  life 


THE    MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  109 

yet  on  her  flesh,  the  body  still  flexible  and  warm. 
Let  me  pass  over  the  rest  of  this  horror.  You 
will  surely  remember,  John,  the  newspaper  ac 
counts. 

Late  that  night  Mr.  Hale  summoned  me  to  him, 
and  before  God  did  pledge  me  most  solemnly  to 
stand  by  him  and  not  to  compromise,  even  if  all 
kith  and  kin  were  destroyed. 

The  next  day  I  was  surprised  at  his  cheerful 
ness.  I  had  thought  he  would  be  deeply  shocked 
by  this  last  tragedy  —  how  deep  I  was  soon  to 
learn.  All  day  he  was  light-hearted  and  high- 
spirited,  as  though  at  last  he  had  found  a  way 
out  of  the  frightful  difficulty.  The  next  morning 
we  found  him  dead  in  his  bed,  a  peaceful  smile  upon 
his  careworn  face  —  asphyxiation.  Through  the 
connivance  of  the  police  and  the  authorities,  it  was 
given  out  to  the  world  as  heart  disease.  We  deemed 
it  wise  to  withhold  the  truth;  but  little  good  has 
it  done  us,  little  good  has  anything  done  us. 

Barely  had  I  left  that  chamber  of  death,  when 
—  but  too  late  —  the  following  extraordinary  letter 
was  received: 


no  THE    MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 


OFFICE  OF  THE  M.  of  M., 

February  17,  1900. 
MR.  EBEN  HALE,  Money  Baron: 

Dear  Sir, — You  will  pardon  our  intrusion,  we 
hope,  so  closely  upon  the  sad  event  of  day  before 
yesterday;  but  what  we  wish  to  say  may  be  of  the 
utmost  importance  to  you.  It  is  in  our  mind  that 
you  may  attempt  to  escape  us.  There  is  but  one 
way,  apparently,  as  you  have  ere  this  doubtless  dis 
covered.  But  we  wish  to  inform  you  that  even  this 
one  way  is  barred.  You  may  die,  but  you  die 
failing  and  acknowledging  your  failure.  Note  this: 
We  are  part  and  parcel  of  your  possessions.  With 
your  millions  we  pass  down  to  your  heirs  and  assigns 
forever. 

We  are  the  inevitable.  We  are  the  culmination 
of  industrial  and  social  wrong.  We  turn  upon  the 
society  that  has  created  us.  We  are  the  success 
ful  failures  of  the  age,  the  scourges  of  a  degraded 
civilization. 

We  are  the  creatures  of  a  perverse  social  selection. 
'We  meet  force  with  force.  Only  the  strong  shall 
endure.  We  believe  in  the  survival  of  the  fittest. 
You  have  crushed  your  wage  slaves  into  the  dirt 


THE    MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  in 

and  you  have  survived.  The  captains  of  war,  at 
your  command,  have  shot  down  like  dogs  your 
employees  in  a  score  of  bloody  strikes.  By  such 
means  you  have  endured.  We  do  not  grumble 
at  the  result,  for  we  acknowledge  and  have  our 
being  in  the  same  natural  law.  And  now  the  ques 
tion  has  arisen :  Under  the  present  social  environ 
ment,  which  of  us  shall  survive?  We  believe  we 
are  the  fittest.  You  believe  you  are  the  fittest.  We 
leave  the  eventuality  to  time  and  law. 
Cordially  yours, 

THE  MINIONS  OF  MIDAS. 

John,  do  you  wonder  now  that  I  shunned  pleas 
ure  and  avoided  friends  ?  But  why  explain  ?  Surely 
this  narrative  will  make  everything  clear.  Three 
weeks  ago  Adelaide  Laidlaw  died.  Since  then  I 
have  waited  in  hope  and  fear.  Yesterday  the  will 
was  probated  and  made  public.  To-day  I  was  noti 
fied  that  a  woman  of  the  middle  class  would  be 
killed  in  Golden  Gate  Park,  in  far-away  San  Fran 
cisco.  The  despatches  in  t^o-night's  papers  give  the 
details  of  the  brutal  happening  —  details  which 
correspond  with  those  furnished  me  in  advance. 


ii2  THE   MINIONS    OF   MIDAS 

It  is  useless.  I  cannot  struggle  against  the 
inevitable.  I  have  been  faithful  to  Mr.  Hale  and 
have  worked  hard.  Why  my  faithfulness  should 
have  been  thus  rewardec  I  cannot  understand. 
Yet  I  cannot  be  false  to  my  trust,  nor  break  my 
word  by  compromising.  Still,  I  have  resolved 
that  no  more  deaths  shall  be  upon  my  head.  I 
have  willed  the  many  millions  I  lately  received  to 
their  rightful  '  owners.  Let  the  stalwart  sons  of 
Eben  Hale  work  out  their  own  salvation.  Ere  you 
read  this  I  shall  have  passed  on.  The  Minions 
of  Midas  are  all-powerful.  The  police  are  im 
potent.  I  have  learned  from  them  that  other 
millionnaires  have  been  likewise  mulcted  or  perse 
cuted  —  how  many  is  not  known,  for  when  one 
yields  to  the  M.  of  M.,  his  mouth  is  thenceforth 
sealed.  Those  who  have  not  yielded  are  even  now 
reaping  their  scarlet  harvest.  The  grim  game  is 
being  played  out.  The  Federal  Government  can 
do  nothing.  I  also  understand  that  similar  branch 
organizations  have  made  their  appearance  in  Europe. 
Society  is  shaken  to  its  foundations.  Principali 
ties  and  powers  are  as  brands  ripe  for  the  burning. 
Instead  of  the  masses  against  the  classes,  it  is  a 


THE    MINIONS    OF   MIDAS  113 

class  against  the  classes.  We,  the  guardians  of 
human  progress,  are  being  singled  out  and  struck 
down.  Law  and  order  have  failed. 

The  officials  have  begged  me  to  keep  this  secret. 
I  have  done  so,  but  can  do  so  no  longer.  It  has  be 
come  a  question  of  public  import,  fraught  with  the 
direst  consequences,  and  I  shall  do  my  duty  before 
I  leave  this  world  by  informing  it  of  its  peril.  Do 
you,  John,  as  my  last  request,  make  this  public. 
Do  not  be  frightened.  The  fate  of  humanity  rests 
in  your  hand.  Let  the  press  strike  off  millions 
of  copies;  let  the  electric  currents  sweep  it  round 
the  world;  wherever  men  meet  and  speak,  let  them 
speak  of  it  in  fear  and  trembling.  And  then,  when 
thoroughly  aroused,  let  society  arise  in  its  might 
and  cast  out  this  abomination. 

Yours,  in  long  farewell, 

WADE  ATSHELER. 


THE    SHADOW    AND    THE    FLASH 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  FLASH* 

WHEN  I  look  back,  I  realize  what  a  peculiar 
friendship  it  was.  First,  there  was  Lloyd 
Inwood,  tall,  slender,  and  finely  knit, 
nervous  and  dark.  And  then  Paul  Tichlorne,  tall, 
slender,  and  finely  knit,  nervous  and  blond.  Each 
was  the  replica  of  the  other  in  everything  except 
color.  Lloyd's  eyes  were  black  ;  Paul's  were  blue. 
Under  stress  of  excitement,  the  blood  coursed  olive 
in  the  face  of  Lloyd,  crimson  in  the  face  of  Paul. 
But  outside  this  matter  of  coloring  they  were  as 
like  as  two  peas.  Both  were  high-strung,  prone  to 
excessive  tension  and  endurance,  and  they  lived 
at  conceit  'pitch. 

But  there  was  a  trio  involved  in  this  remarkable 
friendship,  and  the  third  was  short,  and  fat,  and 
chunky,  and  lazy,  and,  loath  to  say,  it  was  I.  Paul 
and  Lloyd  seemed  born  to  rivalry  with  each  other, 
and  I  to  be  peacemaker  between  them.  We  grew 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  DODD,  MEAD  &  Co. 
117 


n8        THE   SHADOW  AND   THE   FLASH 

up  together,  the  three  of  us,  and  full  often  have  I 
received  the  angry  blows  each  intended  for  the  other. 
They  were  always  competing,  striving  to  outdo  each 
other,  and  when  entered  upon  some  such  struggle 
there  was  no  limit  either  to  their  endeavors  or 
passions. 

This  intense  spirit  of  rivalry  obtained  in  their 
studies  and  their  games.  If  Paul  memorized  one 
canto  of  "  Marmion,"  Lloyd  memorized  two  cantos, 
Paul  came  back  with  three,  and  Lloyd  again  with 
four,  till  each  knew  the  whole  poem  by  heart.  I 
remember  an  incident  that  occurred  at  the  swimming 
hole  —  an  incident  tragically  significant  of  the  life- 
struggle  between  them.  The  boys  had  a  game  of 
diving  to  the  bottom  of  a  ten-foot  pool  and  holding 
on  by  submerged  roots  to  see  who  could  stay  under 
the  longest.  Paul  and  Lloyd  allowed  themselves 
to  be  bantered  into  making  the  descent  together. 
When  I  saw  their  faces,  set  and  determined,  disap 
pear  in  the  water  as  they  sank  swiftly  down,  I  felt 
a  foreboding  of  something  dreadful.  The  moments 
sped,  the  ripples  died  away,  the  face  of  the  pool 
grew  placid  and  untroubled,  and  neither  black  nor 
golden  head  broke  surface  in  quest  of  air.  We 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH        119 

above  grew  anxious.  The  longest  record  of  the 
longest-winded  boy  had  been  exceeded,  and  still 
there  was  no  sign.  Air  bubbles  trickled  slowly 
upward,  showing  that  the  breath  had  been  expelled 
from  their  lungs,  and  after  that  the  bubbles  ceased 
to  trickle  upward.  Each  second  became  inter 
minable,  and,  unable  longer  to  endure  the  suspense, 
I  plunged  into  the  water. 

I  found  them  down  at  the  bottom,  clutching  tight 
to  the  roots,  their  heads  not  a  foot  apart,  their  eyes 
wide  open,  each  glaring  fixedly  at  the  other.  They 
were  suffering  frightful  torment,  writhing  and  twist 
ing  in  the  pangs  of  voluntary  suffocation;  for  neither 
would  let  go  and  acknowledge  himself  beaten.  I 
tried  to  break  Paul's  hold  on  the  root,  but  he  re 
sisted  me  fiercely.  Then  I  lost  my  breath  and  came 
to  the  surface,  badly  scared.  I  quickly  explained 
the  situation,  and  half  a  dozen  of  us  went  down  and 
by  main  strength  tore  them  loose.  By  the  time  we 
got  them  out,  both  were  unconscious,  and  it  was  only 
after  much  barrel-rolling  and  rubbing  and  pounding 
that  they  finally  came  to  their  senses.  They  would 
have  drowned  there,  had  no  one  rescued  them. 

When   Paul  Tichlorne   entered  college,   he   let  it 


120        THE   SHADOW  AND   THE   FLASH 

be  generally  understood  that  he  was  going  in  for  the 
social  sciences.  Lloyd  Inwood,  entering  at  the  same 
time,  elected  to  take  the  same  course.  But  Paul 
had  had  it  secretly  in  mind  all  the  time  to  study  the 
natural  sciences,  specializing  on  chemistry,  and  at 
the  last  moment  he  switched  over.  Though  Lloyd 
had  already  arranged  his  year's  work  and  attended 
the  first  lectures,  he  at  once  followed  Paul's  lead 
and  went  in  for  the  natural  sciences  and  especially 
for  chemistry.  Their  rivalry  soon  became  a  noted 
thing  throughout  the  university.  Each  was  a  spur 
to  the  other,  and  they  went  into  chemistry  deeper 
than  did  ever  students  before  —  so  deep,  in  fact, 
that  ere  they  took  their  sheepskins  they  could  have 
stumped  any  chemistry  or  "cow  college"  professor 
in  the  institution,  save  "old"  Moss,  head  of  the 
department,  and  even  him  they  puzzled  and  edified 
more  than  once.  Lloyd's  discovery  of  the  "death 
bacillus"  of  the  sea  toad,  and  his  experiments  on 
it  with  potassium  cyanide,  sent  his  name  and  that 
of  his  university  ringing  round  the  world;  nor  was 
Paul  a  whit  behind  when  he  succeeded  in  producing 
laboratory  colloids  exhibiting  amoeba-like  activities, 
and  when  he  cast  new  light  upon  the  processes  of 


THE   SHADOW  AND   THE   FLASH        121 

fertilization  through  his  startling  experiments  with 
simple  sodium  chlorides  and  magnesium  solutions 
on  low  forms  of  marine  life. 

It  was  in  their  undergraduate  days,  however, 
in  the  midst  of  their  profoundest  plunges  into  the 
mysteries  of  organic  chemistry,  that  Doris  Van 
Benschoten  entered  into  their  lives.  Lloyd  met 
her  first,  but  within  twenty-four  hours  Paul  saw  to 
it  that  he  also  made  her  acquaintance.  Of  course, 
they  fell  in  love  with  her,  and  she  became  the  only 
thing  in  life  worth  living  for.  They  wooed  her 
with  equal  ardor  and  fire,  and  so  intense  became 
their  struggle  for  her  that  half  the  student-body  took 
to  wagering  wildly  on  the  result.  Even  "old" 
Moss,  one  day,  after  an  astounding  demonstration 
in  his  private  laboratory  by  Paul,  was  guilty  to  the 
extent  of  a  month's  salary  of  backing  him  to  become 
the  bridegroom  of  Doris  Van  Benschoten. 

In  the  end  she  solved  the  problem  in  her  own  way, 
to  everybody's  satisfaction  except  Paul's  and  Lloyd's. 
Getting  them  together,  she  said  that  she  really  could 
not  choose  between  them  because  she  loved  them 
both  equally  well;  and  that,  unfortunately,  since 
polyandry  was  not  permitted  in  the  United  States 


122        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH 

she  would  be  compelled  to  forego  the  honor  and 
happiness  of  marrying  either  of  them.  Each  blamed 
the  other  for  this  lamentable  outcome,  and  the 
bitterness  between  them  grew  more  bitter. 

But  things  came  to  a  head  soon  enough.  It  was 
at  my  home,  after  they  had  taken  their  degrees  and 
dropped  out  of  the  world's  sight,  that  the  beginning 
of  the  end  came  to  pass.  Both  were  men  of  means, 
with  little  inclination  and  no  necessity  for  profes 
sional  life.  My  friendship  and  their  mutual  ani 
mosity  were  the  two  things  that  linked  them  in  any 
way  together.  While  they  were  very  often  at  my 
place,  they  made  it  a  fastidious  point  to  avoid  each 
other  on  such  visits,  though  it  was  inevitable,  under 
the  circumstances,  that  they  should  come  upon  each 
other  occasionally. 

On  the  day  I  have  in  recollection,  Paul  Tichlorne 
had  been  mooning  all  morning  in  my  study  over  a 
current  scientific  review.  This  left  me  free  to  my 
own  affairs,  and  I  was  out  among  my  roses  when 
Lloyd  Inwood  arrived.  Clipping  and  pruning  and 
tacking  the  climbers  on  the  porch,  with  my  mouth 
full  of  nails,  and  Lloyd  following  me  about  and 
lending  a  hand  now  and  again,  we  fell  to  discussing 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH        123 

the  mythical  race  of  invisible  people,  that  strange 
and  vagrant  people  the  traditions  of  which  have 
come  down  to  us.  Lloyd  warmed  to  the  talk  in 
his  nervous,  jerky  fashion,  and  was  soon  interro 
gating  the  physical  properties  and  possibilities  of 
invisibility.  A  perfectly  black  object,  he  contended, 
would  elude  and  defy  the  acutest  vision. 

"Color  is  a  sensation,'*  he  was  saying.  "It  has 
no  objective  reality.  Without  light,  we  can  see 
neither  colors  nor  objects  themselves.  All  objects 
are  black  in  the  dark,  and  in  the  dark  it  is  impossible 
to  see  them.  If  no  light  strikes  upon  them,  then 
no  light  is  flung  back  from  them  to  the  eye,  and  so 
we  have  no  vision-evidence  of  their  being." 

"But  we  see  black  objects  in  daylight,"  I 
objected. 

"Very  true,"  he  went  on  warmly.  "And  that 
is  because  they  are  not  perfectly  black.  Were  they 
perfectly  black,  absolutely  black,  as  it  were,  we  could 
not  see  them  —  ay,  not  in  the  blaze  of  a  thousand 
suns  could  we  see  them !  And  so  I  say,  with  the 
right  pigments,  properly  compounded,  an  abso 
lutely  black  paint  could  be  produced  which  would 
render  invisible  whatever  it  was  applied  to." 


124        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

"It  would  be  a  remarkable  discovery,"  I  said 
non-committally,  for  the  whole  thing  seemed  too 
fantastic  for  aught  but  speculative  purposes. 

"Remarkable!"  Lloyd  slapped  me  on  the  shoul 
der.  "I  should  say  so.  Why,  old  chap,  to  coat 
myself  with  such  a  paint  would  be  to  put  the 
world  at  my  feet.  The  secrets  of  kings  and  courts 
would  be  mine,  the  machinations  of  diplomats  and 
politicians,  the  play  of  stock-gamblers,  the  plans 
of  trusts  and  corporations.  I  could  keep  my  hand 
on  the  inner  pulse  of  things  and  become  the  greatest 
power  in  the  world.  And  I  -  He  broke  off 
shortly,  then  added,  "Well,  I  have  begun  my  ex 
periments,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I'm 
right  in  line  for  it." 

A  laugh  from  the  doorway  startled  us.  Paul 
Tichlorne  was  standing  there,  a  smile  of  mockery 
on  his  lips. 

"You  forget,  my  dear  Lloyd,"  he  said. 

"Forget  what?" 

"You  forget,"  Paul  went  on-  "ah,  you  forget 
the  shadow." 

I  saw  Lloyd's  face  drop,  but  he  answered  sneer- 
ingly,  "I  can  carry  a  sunshade,  you  know."  Then 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH       125 

he  turned  suddenly  and  fiercely  upon  him.  "Look 
here,  Paul,  you'll  keep  out  of  this  if  you  know  what's 
good  for  you/' 

A  rupture  seemed  imminent,  but  Paul  laughed 
good-naturedly.  "I  wouldn't  lay  fingers  on  your 
dirty  pigments.  Succeed  beyond  your  most  sanguine 
expectations,  yet  you  will  always  fetch  up  against 
the  shadow.  You  can't  get  away  from  it.  Now  I 
shall  go  on  the  very  opposite  tack.  In  the  very 
nature  of  my  proposition  the  shadow  will  be  elimi 
nated  — " 

"Transparency!"  ejaculated  Lloyd,  instantly. 
"But  it  can't  be  achieved." 

"Oh,  no;  of  course  not."  And  Paul  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  strolled  ofF  down  the  brier-rose 
path. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  it.  Both  men  attacked 
the  problem  with  all  the  tremendous  energy  for  which 
they  were  noted,  and  with  a  rancor  and  bitterness 
that  made  me  tremble  for  the  success  of  either. 
Each  trusted  me  to  the  utmost,  and  in  the  long  weeks 
of  experimentation  that  followed  I  was  made  a  party 
to  both  sides,  listening  to  their  theorizings  and  wit 
nessing  their  demonstrations.  Never,  by  word  or 


126        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

sign,  did  I  convey  to  either  the  slightest  hint  of  the 
other's  progress,  and  they  respected  me  for  the  seal 
I  put  upon  my  lips. 

Lloyd  Inwood,  after  prolonged  and  unintermittent 
application,  when  the  tension  upon  his  mind  and 
body  became  too  great  to  bear,  had  a  strange  way 
of  obtaining  relief.  He  attended  prize  rights.  It 
was  at  one  of  these  brutal  exhibitions,  whither  he 
had  dragged  me  in  order  to  tell  his  latest  results, 
that  his  theory  received  striking  confirmation. 

"Do  you  see  that  red- whiskered  man  ?"  he  asked, 
pointing  across  the  ring  to  the  fifth  tier  of  seats  on 
the  opposite  side.  "And  do  you  see  the  next  man 
to  him,  the  one  in  the  white  hat  ?  Well,  there  is 
quite  a  gap  between  them,  is  there  not  ?" 

"Certainly,"  I  answered.  "They  are  a  seat 
apart.  The  gap  is  the  unoccupied  seat." 

He  leaned  over  to  me  and  spoke  seriously.  "Be 
tween  the  red-whiskered  man  and  the  white-hatted 
man  sits  Ben  Wasson.  You  have  heard  me  speak 
of  him.  He  is  the  cleverest  pugilist  of  his  weight 
in  the  country.  He  is  also  a  Caribbean  negro,  full- 
blooded,  and  the  blackest  in  the  United  States. 
He  has  on  a  black  overcoat  buttoned  up.  I  saw 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH        127 

him  when  he  came  in  and  took  that  seat.  As  soon 
as  he  sat  down  he  disappeared.  Watch  closely; 
he  may  smile." 

I  was  for  crossing  over  to  verify  Lloyd's  state 
ment,  but  he  restrained  me.  "Wait,"  he  said. 

I  waited  and  watched,  till  the  red-whiskered  man 
turned  his  head  as  though  addressing  the  unoccupied 
seat;  and  then,  in  that  empty  space,  I  saw  the  rolling 
whites  of  a  pair  of  eyes  and  the  white  double-crescent 
of  two  rows  of  teeth,  and  for  the  instant  I  could  make 
out  a  negro's  face.  But  with  the  passing  of  the  smile 
his  visibility  passed,  and  the  chair  seemed  vacant  as 
before. 

"Were  he  perfectly  black,  you  could  sit  alongside 
him  and  not  see  him,"  Lloyd  said ;  -  and  I  confess 
the  illustration  was  apt  enough  to  make  me  well- 
nigh  convinced. 

I  visited  Lloyd's  laboratory  a  number  of  times 
after  that,  and  found  him  always  deep  in  his  search 
after  the  absolute  black.  His  experiments  covered 
all  sorts  of  pigments,  such  as  lamp-blacks,  tars, 
carbonized  vegetable  matters,  soots  of  oils  and  fats, 
and  the  various  carbonized  animal  substances. 

"White  light  is  composed  of  the  seven  primary 


128        THE    SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

colors,"  he  argued  to  me.  "  But  it  is  itself,  of  itself, 
invisible.  Only  by  being  reflected  from  objects  do  it 
and  the  objects  become  visible.  But  only  that  portion 
of  it  that  is  reflected  becomes  visible.  For  instance, 
here  is  a  blue  tobacco-box.  The  white  light  strikes 
against  it,  and,  with  one  exception,  all  its  component 
colors  —  violet,  indigo,  green,  yellow,  orange,  and 
red — are  absorbed.  The  one  exception  is  blue. 
It  is  not  absorbed,  but  reflected.  Wherefore  the 
tobacco-box  gives  us  a  sensation  of  blueness.  We  do 
not  see  the  other  colors  because  they  are  absorbed. 
We  see  only  the  blue.  For  the  same  reason  grass 
is  green.  The  green  waves  of  white  light  are  thrown 
upon  our  eyes." 

"When  we  paint  our  houses,  we  do  not  apply 
color  to  them,"  he  said  at  another  time.  "What 
we  do  is  to  apply  certain  substances  that  have  the 
property  of  absorbing  from  white  light  all  the  colors 
except  those  that  we  would  have  our  houses  appear. 
When  a  substance  reflects  all  the  colors  to  the  eye, 
it  seems  to  us  white.  When  it  absorbs  all  the  colors, 
it  is  black.  But,  as  I  said  before,  we  have  as  yet 
no  perfect  black.  All  the  colors  are  not  absorbed. 
The  perfect  black,  guarding  against  high  lights, 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH       129 

will  be  utterly  and    absolutely  invisible.     Look  at 
that,  for  example." 

He  pointed  to  the  palette  lying  on  his  work-table. 
Different  shades  of  black  pigments  were  brushed 
on  it.  One,  in  particular,  I  could  hardly  see.  It 
gave  my  eyes  a  blurring  sensation,  and  I  rubbed 
them  and  looked  again. 

"That,"    he   said   impressively,    "is   the   blackest 
black  you  or   any  mortal   man   ever  looked   upon. 
But  just  you  wait,  and  I'll  have  a  black  so  black 
that  no  mortal  man  will  be  able  to  look  upon  it  - 
and  see  it!" 

On  the  other  hand,  I  used  to  find  Paul  Tichlorne 
plunged  as  deeply  into  the  study  of  light  polarization, 
diffraction,  and  interference,  single  and  double  refrac 
tion,  and  all  manner  of  strange  organic  compounds. 

"Transparency:  a  state  or  quality  of  body  which 
permits  all  rays  of  light  to  pass  through,"  he  defined 
for  me.  "That  is  what  I  am  seeking.  Lloyd  blun 
ders  up  against  the  shadow  with  his  perfect  opaque 
ness.  But  I  escape  it.  A  transparent  body  casts 
no  shadow;  neither  does  it  reflect  light-waves  - 
that  is,  the  perfectly  transparent  does  not.  So, 
avoiding  high  lights,  not  only  will  such  a  body  cast 


130        THE   SHADOW  AND   THE   FLASH 

no  shadow,  but,  since  it  reflects  no  light,  it  will  also 
be  invisible." 

We  were  standing  by  the  window  at  another 
time.  Paul  was  engaged  in  polishing  a  number  of 
lenses,  which  were  ranged  along  the  sill.  Suddenly, 
after  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  he  said,  "Oh! 
I've  dropped  a  lens.  Stick  your  head  out,  old 
man,  and  see  where  it  went  to." 

Out  I  started  to  thrust  my  head,  but  a  sharp 
blow  on  the  forehead  caused  me  to  recoil.  I  rubbed 
my  bruised  brow  and  gazed  with  reproachful  inquiry 
at  Paul,  who  was  laughing  in  gleeful,  boyish  fashion. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"Well?"  I  echoed. 

"Why  don't  you  investigate?"  he  demanded. 
And  investigate  I  did.  Before  thrusting  out  my 
head,  my  senses,  automatically  active,  had  told 
me  there  was  nothing  there,  that  nothing  inter 
vened  between  me  and  out-of-doors,  that  the  aper 
ture  of  the  window  opening  was  utterly  empty.  I 
stretched  forth  my  hand  and  felt  a  hard  object, 
smooth  and  cool  and  flat,  which  my  touch,  out  of 
its  experience,  told  me  to  be  glass.  I  looked  again, 
but  could  see  positively  nothing. 


THE   SHADOW  AND   THE   FLASH       131 

"White  quartzose  sand,"  Paul  rattled  off,  "sodic 
carbonate,  slaked  lime,  cullet,  manganese  peroxide 

—  there  you  have  it,  the  finest  French  plate  glass, 
made  by  the  great  St.  Gobain  Company,  who  made 
the  finest  plate  glass  in  the  world,  and  this  is  the 
finest  piece  they  ever  made.     It  cost  a  king's  ransom. 
But  look  at  it !     You  can't  see  it.     You  don't  know 
it's  there  till  you  run  your  head  against  it. 

"  Eh,   old  boy !     That's   merely  an  object-lesson 

—  certain   elements,   in   themselves   opaque,   yet   so 
compounded  as  to  give  a  resultant  body  which  is 
transparent.     But    that    is    a    matter    of    inorganic 
chemistry,  you  say.     Very  true.     But  I  dare  to  assert, 
standing  here  on  my  two  feet,  that  in  the  organic 
I  can  duplicate   whatever   occurs  in  the   inorganic. 

"  Here ! "  He  held  a  test-tube  between  me  and 
the  light,  and  I  noted  the  cloudy  or  muddy  liquid 
it  contained.  He  emptied  the  contents  of  another 
test-tube  into  it,  and  almost  instantly  it  became  clear 
and  sparkling. 

"Or  here!"  With  quick,  nervous  movements 
among  his  array  of  test-tubes,  he  turned  a  white 
solution  to  a  wine  color,  and  a  light  yellow  solution 
to  a  dark  brown.  He  dropped  a  piece  of  litmus 


132        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

paper  into  an  acid,  when  it  changed  instantly  to 
red,  and  on  floating  it  in  an  alkali  it  turned  as 
quickly  to  blue. 

"The  litmus  paper  is  still  the  litmus  paper,"  he 
enunciated  in  the  formal  manner  of  the  lecturer. 
"I  have  not  changed  it  into  something  else.  Then 
what  did  I  do  ?  I  merely  changed  the  arrangement 
of  its  molecules.  Where,  at  first,  it  absorbed  all 
colors  from  the  light  but  red,  its  molecular  structure 
was  so  changed  that  it  absorbed  red  and  all  colors 
except  blue.  And  so  it  goes,  ad  infimtum.  Now, 
what  I  purpose  to  do  is  this."  He  paused  for  a 
space.  "I  purpose  to  seek  —  ay,  and  to  find  — 
the  proper  reagents,  which,  acting  upon  the  living 
organism,  will  bring  about  molecular  changes  analo 
gous  to  those  you  have  just  witnessed.  But  these 
reagents,  which  I  shall  find,  and  for  that  matter, 
upon  which  I  already  have  my  hands,  will  not  turn 
the  living  body  to  blue  or  red  or  black,  but  they 
will  turn  it  to  transparency.  All  light  will  pass 
through  it.  It  will  be  invisible.  It  will  cast  no 
shadow." 

A  few  weeks  later  I  went  hunting  with  Paul.  He 
had  been  promising  me  for  some  time  that  I  should 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH        133 

have  the  pleasure  of  shooting  over  a  wonderful 
dog  —  the  most  wonderful  dog,  in  fact,  that  ever 
man  shot  over,  so  he  averred,  and  continued  to  aver 
till  my  curiosity  was  aroused.  But  on  the  morn 
ing  in  question  I  was  disappointed,  for  there  was 
no  dog  in  evidence. 

"Don't  see  him  about,"  Paul  remarked  uncon 
cernedly,  and  we  set  off  across  the  fields. 

I  could  not  imagine,  at  the  time,  what  was  ailing 
me,  but  I  had  a  feeling  of  some  impending  and  deadly 
illness.  My  nerves  were  all  awry,  and,  from  the 
astounding  tricks  they  played  me,  my  senses  seemed 
to  have  run  riot.  Strange  sounds  disturbed  me. 
At  times  I  heard  the  swish-swish  of  grass  being 
shoved  aside,  and  once  the  patter  of  feet  across  a 
patch  of  stony  ground. 

"Did  you  hear  anything,  Paul?"  I  asked  once. 

But  he  shook  his  head,  and  thrust  his  feet  steadily 
forward. 

While  climbing  a  fence,  I  heard  the  low,  eager 
whine  of  a  dog,  apparently  from  within  a  couple  of 
feet  of  me;  but  on  looking  about  me  I  saw 
nothing. 

I  dropped  to  the  ground,  limp  and  trembling. 


i34        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

"Paul,"  I  said,  "we  had  better  return  to  the 
house.  I  am  afraid  I  am  going  to  be  sick." 

"Nonsense,  old  man,"  he  answered.  "The  sun 
shine  has  gone  to  your  head  like  wine.  You'll  be 
all  right.  It's  famous  weather." 

But,  passing  along  a  narrow  path  through  a  clump 
of  cottonwoods,  some  object  brushed  against  my 
legs  and  I  stumbled  and  nearly  fell.  I  looked  with 
sudden  anxiety  at  Paul. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "Tripping 
over  your  own  feet  ? " 

I  kept  my  tongue  between  my  teeth  and  plodded 
on,  though  sore  perplexed  and  thoroughly  satisfied 
that  some  acute  and  mysterious  malady  had  attacked 
my  nerves.  So  far  my  eyes  had  escaped;  but,  when 
we  got  to  the  open  fields  again,  even  my  vision  went 
back  on  me.  Strange  flashes  of  vari-colored,  rain 
bow  light  began  to  appear  and  disappear  on  the 
path  before  me.  Still,  I  managed  to  keep  myself 
in  hand,  till  the  vari-colored  lights  persisted  for  a 
space  of  fully  twenty  seconds,  dancing  and  flashing 
in  continuous  play.  Then  I  sat  down,  weak  and 
shaky. 

"It's  all  up  with  me,"  I  gasped,  covering  my  eyes 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH       135 

with  my  hands.  "It  has  attacked  my  eyes.  Paul, 
take  me  home." 

But  Paul  laughed  long  and  loud.  "What  did 
I  tell  you  ?  —  the  most  wonderful  dog,  eh  ?  Well, 
what  do  you  think?" 

He  turned  partly  from  me  and  began  to  whistle. 
I  heard  the  patter  of  feet,  the  panting  of  a  heated 
animal,  and  the  unmistakable  yelp  of  a  dog.  Then 
Paul  stooped  down  and  apparently  fondled  the 
empty  air. 

"Here!     Give  me  your  fist." 

And  he  rubbed  my  hand  over  the  cold  nose  and 
jowls  of  a  dog.  A  dog  it  certainly  was,  with  the 
shape  and  the  smooth,  short  coat  of  a  pointer. 

Suffice  to  say,  I  speedily  recovered  my  spirits  and 
control.  Paul  put  a  collar  about  the  animal's  neck 
and  tied  his  handkerchief  to  its  tail.  And  then  was 
vouchsafed  us  the  remarkable  sight  of  an  empty 
collar  and  a  waving  handkerchief  cavorting  over 
the  fields.  It  was  something  to  see  that  collar  and 
handkerchief  pin  a  bevy  of  quail  in  a  clump  of  locusts 
and  remain  rigid  and  immovable  till  we  had  flushed 
the  birds. 

Now  and  again  the  dog  emitted  the  vari-colored 


136        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH 

light-flashes  I  have  mentioned.  The  one  thing, 
Paul  explained,  which  he  had  not  anticipated  and 
which  he  doubted  could  be  overcome. 

"They're  a  large  family,"  he  said,  "these  sun  dogs, 
wind  dogs,  rainbows,  halos,  and  parhelia.  They 
are  produced  by  refraction  of  light  from  mineral 
and  ice  crystals,  from  mist,  rain,  spray,  and  no  end 
of  things;  and  I  am  afraid  they  are  the  penalty  I 
must  pay  for  transparency.  I  escaped  Lloyd's 
shadow  only  to  fetch  up  against  the  rainbow  flash." 

A  couple  of  days  later,  before  the  entrance  to 
Paul's  laboratory,  I  encountered  a  terrible  stench. 
So  overpowering  was  it  that  it  was  easy  to  discover 
the  source  —  a  mass  of  putrescent  matter  on  the 
doorstep  which  in  general  outlines  resembled  a  dog. 

Paul  was  startled  when  he  investigated  my  find. 
It  was  his  invisible  dog,  or  rather,  what  had  been 
his  invisible  dog,  for  it  was  now  plainly  visible.  It 
had  been  playing  about  but  a  few  minutes  before 
in  all  health  and  strength.  Closer  examination  re 
vealed  that  the  skull  had  been  crushed  by  some 
heavy  blow.  While  it  was  strange  that  the  animal 
should  have  been  killed,  the  inexplicable  thing  was 
that  it  should  so  quickly  decay. 


THE   SHADOW  AND   THE   FLASH       137 

"The  reagents  I  injected  into  its  system  were 
harmless,"  Paul  explained.  :'Yet  they  were  power 
ful,  and  it  appears  that  when  death  comes  they 
force  practically  instantaneous  disintegration.  Re 
markable  !  Most  remarkable  !  Well,  the  only  thing 
is  not  to  die.  They  do  not  harm  so  long  as  one 
lives.  But  I  do  wonder  who  smashed  in  that  dog's 
head." 

Light,  however,  was  thrown  upon  this  when  a 
frightened  housemaid  brought  the  news  that  Gaffer 
Bedshaw  had  that  very  morning,  not  more  than  an 
hour  back,  gone  violently  insane,  and  was  strapped 
down  at  home,  in  the  huntsman's  lodge,  where  he 
raved  of  a  battle  with  a  ferocious  and  gigantic  beast 
that  he  had  encountered  in  the  Tichlorne  pasture. 
He  claimed  that  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  was  in 
visible,  that  with  his  own  eyes  he  had  seen  that 
it  was  invisible;  wherefore  his  tearful  wife  and 
daughters  shook  their  heads,  and  wherefore  he  but 
waxed  the  more  violent,  and  the  gardener  and  the 
coachman  tightened  the  straps  by  another  hole. 

Nor,  while  Paul  Tichlorne  was  thus  successfully 
mastering  the  problem  of  invisibility,  was  Lloyd 
Inwood  a  whit  behind.  I  went  over  in  answer  to 


138        THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

a  message  of  his  to  come  and  see  how  he  was  getting 
on.  Now  his  laboratory  occupied  an  isolated  situa 
tion  in  the  midst  of  his  vast  grounds.  It  was  built 
in  a  pleasant  little  glade,  surrounded  on  all  sides 
by  a  dense  forest  growth,  and  was  to  be  gained  by 
way  of  a  winding  and  erratic  path.  But  I  had  trav 
elled  that  path  so  often  as  to  know  every  foot  of  it, 
and  conceive  my  surprise  when  I  came  upon  the 
glade  and  found  no  laboratory.  The  quaint  shed 
structure  with  its  red  sandstone  chimney  was  not. 
Nor  did  it  look  as  if  it  ever  had  been.  There  were 
no  signs  of  ruin,  no  debris,  nothing. 

I  started  to  walk  across  what  had  once  been  its 
site.  "This,"  I  said  to  myself,  "should  be  where 
the  step  went  up  to  the  door."  Barely  were  the 
words  out  of  my  mouth  when  I  stubbed  my  toe  on 
some  obstacle,  pitched  forward,  and  butted  my 
head  into  something  that  felt  very  much  like  a  door. 
I  reached  out  my  hand.  It  was  a  door.  I  found  the 
knob  and  turned  it.  And  at  once,  as  the  door 
swung  inward  on  its  hinges,  the  whole  interior  of 
the  laboratory  impinged  upon  my  vision.  Greeting 
Lloyd,  I  closed  the  door  and  backed  up  the  path  a 
few  paces.  I  could  see  nothing  of  the  building. 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH        139 

Returning  and  opening  the  door,  at  once  all  the  fur 
niture  and  every  detail  of  the  interior  were  visible. 
It  was  indeed  startling,  the  sudden  transition  from 
void  to  light  and  form  and  color. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it,  eh?"  Lloyd  asked, 
wringing  my  hand.  "I  slapped  a  couple  of  coats 
of  absolute  black  on  the  outside  yesterday  afternoon 
to  see  how  it  worked.  How's  your  head  ?  You 
bumped  it  pretty  solidly,  I  imagine." 

"Never  mind  that,"  he  interrupted  my  congratu 
lations.  "I've  something  better  for  you  to  do." 

While  he  talked  he  began  to  strip,  and  when  he 
stood  naked  before  me  he  thrust  a  pot  and  brush 
into  my  hand  and  said,  "Here,  give  me  a  coat  of 
this." 

It  was  an  oily,  shellac-like  stuff,  which  spread 
quickly  and  easily  over  the  skin  and  dried  imme 
diately. 

"Merely  preliminary  and  precautionary,"  he  ex 
plained  when  I  had  finished;  "but  now  for  the  real 
stuff." 

I  picked  up  another  pot  he  indicated,  and  glanced 
inside,  but  could  see  nothing. 

"It's  empty,"  I  said. 


140         THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH 

"Stick  your  finger  in  it." 

I  obeyed,  and  was  aware  of  a  sensation  of  cool 
moistness.  On  withdrawing  my  hand  I  glanced 
at  the  forefinger,  the  one  I  had  immersed,  but  it 
had  disappeared.  I  mo/ed  it,  and  knew  from  the 
alternate  tension  and  relaxation  of  the  muscles 
that  I  moved  it,  but  it  defied  my  sense  of  sight.  To 
all  appearances  I  had  been  shorn  of  a  finger;  nor 
could  I  get  any  visual  impression  of  it  till  I  ex 
tended  it  under  the  skylight  and  saw  its  shadow 
plainly  blotted  on  the  floor. 

Lloyd  chuckled.  "Now  spread  it  on,  and  keep 
your  eyes  open." 

I  dipped  the  brush  into  the  seemingly  empty  pot, 
and  gave  him  a  long  stroke  across  his  chest.  With 
the  passage  of  the  brush  the  living  flesh  disappeared 
from  beneath.  I  covered  his  right  leg,  and  he  was 
a  one-legged  man  defying  all  laws  of  gravitation. 
And  so,  stroke  by  stroke,  member  by  member,  I 
painted  Lloyd  Inwood  into  nothingness.  It  was  a 
creepy  experience,  and  I  was  glad  when  naught 
remained  in  sight  but  his  burning  black  eyes,  poised 
apparently  unsupported  in  mid-air. 

"  I  have  a  refined  and  harmless  solution  for  them," 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH        141 

he  said.  "A  fine  spray  with  an  air-brush,  and 
presto !  I  am  not." 

This  deftly  accomplished,  he  said,  "Now  I  shall 
move  about,  and  do  you  tell  me  what  sensations 
you  experience." 

"In  the  first  place,  I  cannot  see  you,"  I  said,  and 
I  could  hear  his  gleeful  laugh  from  the  midst  of  the 
emptiness.  "Of  course,"  I  continued,  "you  can 
not  escape  your  shadow,  but  that  was  to  be  ex 
pected.  When  you  pass  between  my  eye  and  an 
object,  the  object  disappears,  but  so  unusual  and 
incomprehensible  is  its  disappearance  that  it  seems 
to  me  as  though  my  eyes  had  blurred.  When  you 
move  rapidly,  I  experience  a  bewildering  succession 
of  blurs.  The  blurring  sensation  makes  my  eyes 
ache  and  my  brain  tired." 

"  Have  you  any  other  warnings  of  my  presence  ?" 
he  asked. 

"No,  and  yes,"  I  answered.  "When  you  are  near 
me  I  have  feelings  similar  to  those  produced  by 
dank  warehouses,  gloomy  crypts,  and  deep  mines. 
And  as  sailors  feel  the  loom  of  the  land  on  dark 
nights,  so  I  think  I  feel  the  loom  of  your  body. 
But  it  is  all  very  vague  and  intangible." 


i42         THE   SHADOW   AND   THE   FLASH 

Long  we  talked  that  last  morning  in  his  laboratory ; 
and  when  I  turned  to  go,  he  put  his  unseen  hand 
in  mine  with  nervous  grip,  and  said,  "Now  I  shall 
conquer  the  world ! "  And  I  could  not  dare  to  tell 
him  of  Paul  Tichlorne's  equal  success. 

At  home  I  found  a  note  from  Paul,  asking  me  to 
come  up  immediately,  and  it  was  high  noon  when 
I  came  spinning  up  the  driveway  on  my  wheel. 
Paul  called  me  from  the  tennis  court,  and  I  dis 
mounted  and  went  over.  But  the  court  was  empty. 
As  I  stood  there,  gaping  open-mouthed,  a  tennis 
ball  struck  me  on  the  arm,  and  as  I  turned  about, 
another  whizzed  past  my  ear.  For  aught  I  could 
see  of  my  assailant,  they  came  whirling  at  me  from 
out  of  space,  and  right  well  was  I  peppered  with 
them.  But  when  the  balls  already  flung  at  me 
began  to  come  back  for  a  second  whack,  I  realized 
the  situation.  Seizing  a  racquet  and  keeping  my 
eyes  open,  I  quickly  saw  a  rainbow  flash  appearing 
and  disappearing  and  darting  over  the  ground.  I 
took  out  after  it,  and  when  I  laid  the  racquet  upon 
it  for  a  half-dozen  stout  blows,  Paul's  voice  rang 
out: 

"Enough!   Enough!  Oh!  Ouch!   Stop!    You're 


THE    SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH        143 

landing  on  my  naked  skin,  you  know  !  Ow  !  O-w-w ! 
I'll  be  good !  I'll  be  good !  I  only  wanted  you  to 
see  my  metamorphosis,"  he  said  ruefully,  and  I 
imagined  he  was  rubbing  his  hurts. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were   playing  tennis  - 
a  handicap  on  my  part,  for  I  could  have  no  knowl 
edge  of  his  position  save  when  all  the  angles  be 
tween  himself,  the  sun,  and  me,  were  in  proper  con 
junction.     Then   he   flashed,    and   only   then.     But 
the  flashes  were  more  brilliant  than  the  rainbow  - 
purest  blue,  most   delicate  violet,  brightest  yellow, 
and   all  the   intermediary   shades,  with  the   scintil- 
lant   brilliancy  of  the  diamond,  dazzling,  blinding, 
iridescent. 

But  in  the  midst  of  our  play  I  felt  a  sudden  cold 
chill,  reminding  me  of  deep  mines  and  gloomy 
crypts,  such  a  chill  as  I  had  experienced  that  very 
morning.  The  next  moment,  close  to  the  net,  I 
saw  a  ball  rebound  in  mid-air  and  empty  space, 
and  at  ihe  same  instant,  a  score  of  feet  away,  Paul 
Tichlorne  emitted  a  rainbow  flash.  It  could  not 
be  he  from  whom  the  ball  had  rebounded,  and  with 
sickening  dread  I  realized  that  Lloyd  Inwood  had 
come  upon  the  scene.  To  make  sure,  I  looked  for 


144         THE   SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH 

his  shadow,  and  there  it  was,  a  shapeless  blotch  the 
girth  of  his  body,  (the  sun  was  overhead),  moving 
along  the  ground.  I  remembered  his  threat,  and 
felt  sure  that  all  the  long  years  of  rivalry  were  about 
to  culminate  in  uncanny  battle. 

I  cried  a  warning  to  Paul,  and  heard  a  snarl  as 
of  a  wild  beast,  and  an  answering  snarl.  I  saw  the 
dark  blotch  move  swiftly  across  the  court,  and  a 
brilliant  burst  of  vari-colored  light  moving  with 
equal  swiftness  to  meet  it;  and  then  shadow  and 
flash  came  together  and  there  was  the  sound  of  un 
seen  blows.  The  net  went  down  before  my  fright 
ened  eyes.  I  sprang  toward  the  fighters,  crying: 

"For  God's  sake!" 

But  their  locked  bodies  smote  against  my  knees, 
and  I  was  overthrown. 

"You  keep  out  of  this,  old  man!"  I  heard  the 
voice  of  Lloyd  Inwood  from  out  of  the  emptiness. 
And  then  Paul's  voice  crying,  "Yes,  we've  had 
enough  of  peacemaking!" 

From  the  sound  of  their  voices  I  knew  they  had 
separated.  I  could  not  locate  Paul,  and  so  ap 
proached  the  shadow  that  represented  Lloyd.  But 
from  the  other  side  came  a  stunning  blow  on  the 


THE    SHADOW   AND   THE    FLASH        145 

point  of  my  jaw,  and  I  heard  Paul  scream  angrily, 
"Now  will  you  keep  away?" 

Then  they  came  together  again,  the  impact  of 
their  blows,  their  groans  and  gasps,  and  the  swift 
flashings  and  shadow-movings  telling  plainly  of  the 
deadliness  of  the  struggle. 

I  shouted  for  help,  and  Gaffer  Bedshaw  came  run 
ning  into  the  court.  I  could  see,  as  he  approached, 
that  he  was  looking  at  me  strangely,  but  he  collided 
with  the  combatants  and  was  hurled  headlong  to 
the  ground.  With  despairing  shriek  and  a  cry 
of  "O  Lord,  I've  got  'em!"  he  sprang  to  his  feet 
and  tore  madly  out  of  the  court. 

I  could  do  nothing,  so  I  sat  up,  fascinated  and 
powerless,  and  watched  the  struggle.  The  noon 
day  sun  beat  down  with  dazzling  brightness  on  the 
naked  tennis  court.  And  it  was  naked.  All  I 
could  see  was  the  blotch  of  shadow  and  the  rain 
bow  flashes,  the  dust  rising  from  the  invisible  feet, 
the  earth  tearing  up  from  beneath  the  straining 
foot-grips,  and  the  wire  screen  bulge  once  or  twice 
as  their  bodies  hurled  against  it.  That  was  all, 
and  after  a  time  even  that  ceased.  There  were  no 
more  flashes,  and  the  shadow  had  become  long  and 


146         THE    SHADOW   AND    THE    FLASH 

stationary;  and  I  remembered  their  set  boyish 
faces  when  they  clung  to  the  roots  in  the  deep  cool 
ness  of  the  pool. 

They  found  me  an  hour  afterward.  Some  ink 
ling  of  what  had  happened  got  to  the  servants  and 
they  quitted  the  Tichlorne  service  in  a  body.  Gaffer 
Bedshaw  never  recovered  from  the  second  shock 
he  received,  and  is  confined  in  a  madhouse,  hope 
lessly  incurable.  The  secrets  of  their  marvellous 
discoveries  died  with  Paul  and  Lloyd,  both  labora 
tories  being  destroyed  by  grief-stricken  relatives. 
As  for  myself,  I  no  longer  care  for  chemical  research, 
and  science  is  a  tabooed  topic  in  my  household. 
I  have  returned  to  my  roses.  Nature's  colors  are 
good  enough  for  me. 


ALL  GOLD  CANYON 


ALL  GOLD  CANYON* 

IT  was  the  green  heart  of  the  canyon,  where  the 
walls  swerved   back   from  the  rigid  plan  and 
relieved   their  harshness   of  line  by  making  a 
little  sheltered  nook  and  filling  it  to  the  brim  with 
sweetness    and    roundness    and    softness.     Here    all 
things  rested.     Even  the  narrow  stream  ceased  its 
turbulent  down-rush  long  enough  to  form  a  quiet 
pool.     Knee-deep  in  the  water,  with  drooping  head 
and    half-shut    eyes,    drowsed   a  red-coated,  many- 
antlered  buck. 

On  one  side,  beginning  at  the  very  lip  of  the 
pool,  was  a  tiny  meadow,  a  cool,  resilient  surface 
of  green  that  extended  to  the  base  of  the  frowning 
'wall.  Beyond  the  pool  a  gentle  slope  of  earth  ran 
up  and  up  to  meet  the  opposing  wall.  Fine  grass 
covered  the  slope  —  grass  that  was  spangled  with 
flowers,  with  here  and  there  patches  of  color,  orange 
and  purple  and  golden.  Below,  the  canyon  was 
shi^t  in.  There  was  no  view.  The  walls  leaned 

*  COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  THE  CENTURY  COMPANY. 
149. 


150  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

together  abruptly  and  the  canyon  ended  in  a  chaos 
of  rocks,  moss-covered  and  hidden  by  a  green 
screen  of  vines  and  creepers  and  boughs  of  trees. 
Up  the  canyon  rose  far  hills  and  peaks,  the  big  foot 
hills,  pine-covered  and  remote.  And  far  beyond, 
like  clouds  upon  the  border  of  the  sky,  towered 
minarets  of  white,  where  the  Sierra's  eternal  snows 
flashed  austerely  the  blazes  of  the  sun. 

There  was  no  dust  in  the  canyon.  The  leaves 
and  flowers  were  clean  and  virginal.  The  grass 
was  young  velvet.  Over  the  pool  three  cotton- 
woods  sent  their  snowy  fluffs  fluttering  down  the 
quiet  air.  On  the  slope  the  blossoms  of  the  wine- 
wooded  manzanita  filled  the  air  with  springtime 
odors,  while  the  leaves,  wise  with  experience,  were 
already  beginning  their  vertical  twist  against  the 
coming  aridity  of  summer.  In  the  open  spaces  on 
the  slope,  beyond  the  farthest  shadow-reach  of  the 
manzanita,  .poised  the  mariposa  lilies,  like  so  many 
flights  of  jewelled  moths  suddenly  arrested  and  on 
the  verge  of  trembling  into  flight  again.  Here  and 
there  that  woods  harlequin,  the  madrone,  permitting 
itself  to  be  caught  in  the  act  of  changing  its  pea- 
green  trunk  to  madder-red,  breathed  its  fragrance 


ALL    GOLD    CANYON  151 

into  the  air  from  great  clusters  of  waxen  bells. 
Creamy  white  were  these  bells,  shaped  like  lilies- 
of-the-valley,  with  the  sweetness  of  perfume  that  is 
of  the  springtime. 

There  was  not  a  sigh  of  wind.  The  air  was 
drowsy  with  its  weight  of  perfume.  It  was  a  sweet 
ness  that  would  have  been  cloying  had  the  air  been 
heavy  and  humid.  But  the  air  was  sharp  and  thin. 
It  was  as  starlight  transmuted  into  atmosphere,  shot 
through  and  warmed  by  sunshine,  and  flower- 
drenched  with  sweetness. 

An  occasional  butterfly  drifted  in  and  out  through 
the  patches  of  light  and  shade.  And  from  all  about 
rose  the  low  and  sleepy  hum  of  mountain  bees  - 
feasting  Sybarites  that  jostled  one  another  good- 
naturedly  at  the  board,  nor  found  time  for  rough 
discourtesy.  So  quietly  did  the  little  stream  drip 
and  ripple  its  way  through  the  canyon  that  it  spoke 
only  in  faint  and  occasional  gurgles.  The  voice  of 
the  stream  was  as  a  drowsy  whisper,  ever  inter 
rupted  by  dozings  and  silences,  ever  lifted  again  in 
the  awakenings. 

The  motion  of  all  things  was  a  drifting  in  the 
heart  of  the  canyon.  Sunshine  and  butterflies  drifted 


152  ALL   GOLD   CANYON 

in  and  out  among  the  trees.  The  hum  of  the  bees 
and  the  whisper  of  the  stream  were  a  drifting  of 
sound.  And  the  drifting  sound  and  drifting  color 
seemed  to  weave  together  in  the  making  of  a  deli 
cate  and  intangible  fabric  which  was  the  spirit  of 
the  place.  It  was  a  spirit  of  peace  that  was  not  of 
death,  but  of  smooth-pulsing  life,  of  quietude  that 
was  not  silence,  of  movement  that  was  not  action, 
of  repose  that  was  quick  with  existence  without 
being  violent  with  struggle  and  travail.  The  spirit 
of  the  place  was  the  spirit  of  the  peace  of  the  living, 
somnolent  with  the  easement  and  content  of  pros 
perity,  and  undisturbed  by  rumors  of  far  wars. 

The  red-coated,  many-antlered  buck  acknowl 
edged  the  lordship  of  the  spirit  of  the  place  and 
dozed  knee-deep  in  the  cool,  shaded  pool.  There 
seemed  no  flies  to  vex  him  and  he  was  languid  with 
rest.  Sometimes  his  ears  moved  when  the  stream 
awoke  and  whispered;  but  they  moved  lazily,  with 
foreknowledge  that  it  was  merely  the  stream  grown 
garrulous  at  discovery  that  it  had  slept. 

But  there  came  a  time  when  the  buck's  ears 
lifted  and  tensed  with  swift  eagerness  for  sound. 
His  head  was  turned  down  the  canyon.  His  sensi- 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  153 

tive,  quivering  nostrils  scented  the  air.  His  eyes 
could  not  pierce  the  green  screen  through  which  the 
stream  rippled  away,  but  to  his  ears  came  the  voice 
of  a  man.  It  was  a  steady,  monotonous,  singsong 
voice.  Once  the  buck  heard  the  harsh  clash  of 
metal  upon  rock.  At  the  sound  he  snorted  with  a 
sudden  start  that  jerked  him  through  the  air  from 
water  to  meadow,  and  his  feet  sank  into  the  young 
velvet,  while  he  pricked  his  ears  and  again  scented 
the  air.  Then  he  stole  across  the  tiny  meadow, 
pausing  once  and  again  to  listen,  and  faded  away 
out  of  the  canyon  like  a  wraith,  soft-footed  and 
without  sound. 

The  clash  of  steel-shod  soles  against  the  rocks 
began  to  be  heard,  and  the  man's  voice  grew  louder. 
It  was  raised  in  a  sort  of  chant  and  became  dis 
tinct  with  nearness,  so  that  the  words  could  be 
heard : 

"  Tu'n  around  an'  tu'n  yo'  face 
Untoe  them  sweet  hills  of  grace 

(D'  pow'rs  of  sin  yo'  am  scornin' !). 
Look  about  an'  look  aroun', 
Fling  yo'  sin-pack  on  d'  groun' 

(Yo'  will  meet  wid  d'  Lord  in  d'  mornin' ! )." 


154  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

A  sound  of  scrambling  accompanied  the  song, 
and  the  spirit  of  the  place  fled  away  on  the  heels 
of  the  red-coated  buck.  The  green  screen  was 
burst  asunder,  and  a  man  peered  out  at  the  meadow 
and  the  pool  and  the  sloping  side-hill.  He  was  a 
deliberate  sort  of  man.  He  took  in  the  scene  with 
one  embracing  glance,  then  ran  his  eyes  over  the 
details  to  verify  the  general  impression.  Then,  and 
not  until  then,  did  he  open  his  mouth  in  vivid  and 
solemn  approval: 

"Smoke  of  life  an'  snakes  of  purgatory!  Will 
you  just  look  at  that !  Wood  an'  water  an'  grass  an' 
a  side-hill !  A  pocket-hunter's  delight  an'  a  cayuse's 
paradise !  Cool  green  for  tired  eyes !  Pink  pills 
for  pale  people  ain't  in  it.  A  secret  pasture  for 
prospectors  and  a  resting-place  for  tired  burros,  by 
damn!" 

He  was  a  sandy-complexioned  man  in  whose  face 
geniality  and  humor  seemed  the  salient  characteris 
tics.  It  was  a  mobile  face,  quick-changing  to  in 
ward  mood  and  thought.  Thinking  was  in  him  a 
visible  process.  Ideas  chased  across  his  face  like 
wind-flaws  across  the  surface  of  a  lake.  His  hair, 
sparse  and  unkempt  of  growth,  was  as  indeterminate 


ALL    GOLD    CANYON  155 

and  colorless  as  his  complexion.  It  would  seem 
that  all  the  color  of  his  frame  had  gone  into  his 
eyes,  for  they  were  startlingly  blue.  Also,  they 
were  laughing  and  merry  eyes,  within  them 
much  of  the  naivete  and  wonder  of  the  child; 
and  yet,  in  an  unassertive  way,  they  contained 
much  of  calm  self-reliance  and  strength  of  purpose 
founded  upon  self-experience  and  experience  of  the 
world. 

From  out  the  screen  of  vines  and  creepers  he 
flung  ahead  of  him  a  miner's  pick  and  shovel  and 
gold-pan.  Then  he  crawled  out  himself  into  the 
open.  He  was  clad  in  faded  overalls  and  black 
cotton  shirt,  with  hobnailed  brogans  on  his  feet, 
and  on  his  head  a  hat  whose  shapelessness  and 
stains  advertised  the  rough  usage  of  wind  and  rain 
and  sun  and  camp-smoke.  He  stood  erect,  seeing 
wide-eyed  the  secrecy  of  the  scene  and  sensuously 
inhaling  the  warm,  sweet  breath  of  the  canyon- 
garden  through  nostrils  that  dilated  and  quivered 
with  delight.  His  eyes  narrowed  to  laughing  slits 
of  blue,  his  face  wreathed  itself  in  joy,  and  his  mouth 
curled  in  a  smile  as  he  cried  aloud : 

"Jumping  dandelions  and  happy  hollyhocks,  but 


156  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

that  smells  good  to  me !  Talk  about  your  attar  o' 
roses  an'  cologne  factories!  They  ain't  in  it ! '' 

He  had  the  habit  of  soliloquy.  His  quick- 
changing  facial  expressions  might  tell  every  thought 
and  mood,  but  the  tongue,  perforce,  ran  hard  after, 
repeating,  like  a  second  Boswell. 

The  man  lay  down  on  the  lip  of  the  pool  and 
drank  long  and  deep  of  its  water.  "Tastes  good  to 
me,"  he  murmured,  lifting  his  head  and  gazing 
across  the  pool  at  the  side-hill,  while  he  wiped  his 
mouth  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  The  side-hill 
attracted  his  attention.  Still  lying  on  his  stomach, 
he  studied  the  hill  formation  long  and  carefully. 
It  was  a  practised  eye  that  travelled  up  the  slope 
to  the  crumbling  canyon-wall  and  back  and  down 
again  to  the  edge  of  the  pool.  He  scrambled  to 
his  feet  and  favored  the  side-hill  with  a  second 
survey. 

(<  Looks  good  to  me,"  he  concluded,  picking  up 
his  pick  and  shovel  and  gold-pan. 

He  crossed  the  stream  below  the  pool,  stepping 
agilely  from  stone  to  stone.  Where  the  side-hill 
touched  the  water  he  dug  up  a  shovelful  of  dirt  and 
put  it  into  the  gold-pan.  He  squatted  down,  hold- 

\ 


ALL   GOLD   CANYON  157 

ing  the  pan  in  his  two  hands,  and  partly  immersing 
it  in  the  stream.  Then  he  imparted  to  the  pan  a 
deft  circular  motion  that  sent  the  water  sluicing  in 
and  out  through  the  dirt  and  gravel.  The  larger 
and  the  lighter  particles  worked  to  the  surface,  and 
these,  by  a  skilful  dipping  movement  of  the  pan, 
he  spilled  out  and  over  the  edge.  Occasionally,  to 
expedite  matters,  he  rested  the  pan  and  with  his 
fingers  raked  out  the  large  pebbles  and  pieces  of  rock. 
The  contents  of  the  pan  diminished  rapidly  until 
only  fine  dirt  and  the  smallest  bits  of  gravel  re 
mained.  At  this  stage  he  began  to  work  very  de 
liberately  and  carefully.  It  was  fine  washing,  and 
he  washed  fine  and  finer,  with  a  keen  scrutiny  and 
delicate  and  fastidious  touch.  At  last  the  pan 
seemed  empty  of  everything  but  water;  but  with 
a  quick  semicircular  flirt  that  sent  the  water  flying 
over  the  shallow  rim  into  the  stream,  he  disclosed  a 
layer  of  black  sand  on  the  bottom  of  the  pan.  So 
thin  was  this  layer  that  it  was  like  a  streak  of  paint. 
He  examined  it  closely.  In  the  midst  of  it  was  a 
tiny  golden  speck.  He  dribbled  a  little  water  in 
over  the  depressed  edge  of  the  pan.  With  a  quick 
flirt  he  sent  the  water  sluicing  across  the  bottom, 


158  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

turning  the  grains  of  black  sand  over  and  over. 
A  second  tiny  golden  speck  rewarded  his  effort. 

The  washing  had  now  become  very^  fine  —  fine 
beyond  all  need  of  ordinary  placer-mining.  He 
worked  the  black  sand,  a  small  portion  at  a  time, 
up  the  shallow  rim  of  the  pan.  Each  small  portion 
he  examined  sharply,  so  that  his  eyes  saw  every 
grain  of  it  before  he  allowed  it  to  slide  over  the 
edge  and  away.  Jealously,  bit  by  bit,  he  let  the 
black  sand  slip  away.  A  golden  speck,  no  larger 
than  a  pin-point,  appeared  on  the  rim,  and  by  his 
manipulation  of  the  water  it  returned  to  the  bottom 
of  the  pan.  And  in  such  fashion  another  speck 
was  disclosed,  and  another.  Great  was  his  care  of 
them.  Like  a  shepherd  he  herded  his  flock  of 
golden  specks  so  that  not  one  should  be  lost.  At 
last,  of  the  pan  of  dirt  nothing  remained  but  his 
golden  herd.  He  counted  it,  and  then,  after  all 
his  labor,  sent  it  flying  out  of  the  pan  with  one  final 
swirl  of  water. 

But  his  blue  eyes  were  shining  with  desire  as  he 
rose  to  his  feet.  "Seven,"  he  muttered  aloud, 
asserting  the  sum  of  the  specks  for  which  he  had 
toiled  so  hard  and  which  he  had  so  wantonly  thrown 


ALL   GOLD   CANYON  159 

away.  "Seven,"  he  repeated,  with  the  emphasis  of 
one  trying  to  impress  a  number  on  his  memory. 

He  stood  still  a  long  while,  surveying  the  hill 
side.  In  his  eyes  was  a  curiosity,  new-aroused 
and  burning.  There  was  an  exultance  about 
his  bearing  and  a  keenness  like  that  of  a  hunting 
animal  catching  the  fresh  scent  of  game. 

He  moved  down  the  stream  a  few  steps  and  took 
a  second  panful  of  dirt. 

Again  came  the  careful  washing,  the  jealous  herd 
ing  of  the  golden  specks,  and  the  wantonness  with 
which  he  sent  them  flying  into  the  stream  when  he 
had  counted  their  number. 

"Five,"  he  muttered,  and  repeated,  "five." 

He  could  not  forbear  another  survey  of  the  hill 
before  filling  the  pan  farther  down  the  stream. 
His  golden  herds  diminished.  "Four,  three,  two, 
two,  one,"  were  his  memory-tabulations  as  he 
moved  down  the  stream.  When  but  one  speck  of 
gold  rewarded  his  washing,  he  stopped  and  built  a 
fire  of  dry  twigs.  Into  this  he  thrust  the  gold- 
pan  and  burned  it  till  it  was  blue-black.  He  held 
up  the  pan  and  examined  it  critically.  Then  he 
nodded  approbation.  Against  such  a  color-back- 


160  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

ground  he  could  defy  the  tiniest  yellow  speck  to 
elude  him. 

Still  moving  down  the  stream,  he  panned  again. 
A  single  speck  was  his  reward.  A  third  pan  con 
tained  no  gold  at  all.  Not  satisfied  with  this,  he 
panned  three  times  again,  taking  his  shovels  of  dirt 
within  a  foot  of  one  another.  Each  pan  proved 
empty  of  gold,  and  the  fact,  instead  of  discouraging 
him,  seemed  to  give  him  satisfaction.  His  elation 
increased  with  each  barren  washing,  until  he  arose, 
exclaiming  jubilantly: 

"  If  it  ain't  the  real  thing,  may  God  knock  off  my 
head  with  sour  apples!" 

Returning  to  where  he  had  started  operations,  he 
began  to  pan  up  the  stream.  At  first  his  golden 
herds  increased  —  increased  prodigiously.  "Four 
teen,  eighteen,  twenty-one,  twenty-six,"  ran  his 
memory  tabulations.  Just  above  the  pool  he  struck 
his  richest  pan  —  thirty-five  colors. 

"Almost  enough  to  save,"  he  remarked  regret 
fully  as  he  allowed  the  water  to  sweep  them  away. 

The  sun  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  sky.  The  man 
worked  on.  Pan  by  pan,  he  went  up  the  stream, 
the  tally  of  results  steadily  decreasing. 


ALL    G0LD    CANYON  161 

"It's  just  booful,  the  way  it  peters  out,"  he  exulted 
when  a  shovelful  of  dirt  contained  no  more  than  a 
single  speck  of  gold. 

And  when  no  specks  at  all  were  found  in  several 
pans,  he  straightened  up  and  favored  the  hillside 
with  a  confident  glance. 

"Ah,  ha!  Mr.  Pocket!"  he  cried  out,  as  though 
to  an  auditor  hidden  somewhere  above  him  be 
neath  the  surface  of  the  slope.  "Ah,  ha!  Mr. 
Pocket !  I'm  a-comin',  I'm  a-comin',  an*  I'm 
shorely  gwine  to  get  yer!  You  heah  me,  Mr. 
Pocket  ?  I'm  gwine  to  get  yer  as  shore  as  punkins 
ain't  cauliflowers !" 

He  turned  and  flung  a  measuring  glance  at  the 
sun  poised  above  him  in  the  azure  of  the  cloudless 
sky.  Then  he  went  down  the  canyon,  following 
the  line  of  shovel-holes  he  had  made  in  filling  the 
pans.  He  crossed  the  stream  below  the  pool  and 
disappeared  through  the  green  screen.  There  was 
little  opportunity  for  the  spirit  of  the  place  to  re 
turn  with  its  quietude  and  repose,  for  the  man's 
voice,  raised  in  ragtime  song,  still  dominated  the 
canyon  with  possession. 

After  a  time,  with  a  greater  clashing  of  steel-shod 


162  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

feet  on  rock,  he  returned.  The  green  screen  was 
tremendously  agitated.  It  surged  back  and  forth 
in  the  throes  of  a  struggle.  There  was  a  loud 
grating  and  clanging  of  metal.  The  man's  voice 
leaped  to  a  higher  pitch  and  was  sharp  with  im 
perativeness.  A  large  body  plunged  and  panted. 
There  was  a  snapping  and  ripping  and  rending,  and 
amid  a  shower  of  falling  leaves  a  horse  burst  through 
the  screen.  On  its  back  was  a  pack,  and  from  this 
trailed  broken  vines  and  torn  creepers.  The  animal 
gazed  with  astonished  eyes  at  the  scene  into  which 
it  had  been  precipitated,  then  dropped  its  head  to 
the  grass  and  began  contentedly  to  graze.  A  second 
horse  scrambled  into  view,  slipping  once  on  the 
mossy  rocks  and  regaining  equilibrium  when  its 
hoofs  sank  into  the  yielding  surface  of  the  meadow. 
It  was  riderless,  though  on  its  back  was  a  high- 
horned  Mexican  saddle,  scarred  and  discolored  by 
long  usage. 

The  man  brought  up  the  rear.  He  threw  off 
pack  and  saddle,  with  an  eye  to  camp  location,  and 
gave  the  animals  their  freedom  to  graze.  He  un 
packed  his  food  and  got  out  frying-pan  and  coffee 
pot.  He  gathered  an  armful  of  dry  wood,  and  with 
a  few  stones  made  a  place  for  his  fire. 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  163 

"My!"  he  said,  "but  I've  got  an  appetite.  I 
could  scoff  iron-filings  an'  horseshoe  nails  an' 
thank  you  kindly,  ma'am,  for  a  second  helpin'." 

He  straightened  up,  and,  while  he  reached  for 
matches  in  the  pocket  of  his  overalls,  his  eyes 
travelled  across  the  pool  to  the  side-hill.  His  fingers 
had  clutched  the  match-box,  but  they  relaxed  their 
hold  and  the  hand  came  out  empty.  The  man 
wavered  perceptibly.  He  looked  at  his  preparations 
for  cooking  and  he  looked  at  the  hill. 

"Guess  I'll  take  another  whack  at  her,"  he  con 
cluded,  starting  to  cross  the  stream. 

"They  ain't  no  sense  in  it,  I  know,"  he  mumbled 
apologetically.  "But  keepin'  grub  back  an  hour 
ain't  goin'  to  hurt  none,  I  reckon." 

A  few  feet  back  from  his  first  line  of  test-pans  he 
started  a  second  line.  The  sun  dropped  down  the 
western  sky,  the  shadows  lengthened,  but  the  man 
worked  on.  He  began  a  third  line  of  test-pans. 
He  was  cross-cutting  the  hillside,  line  by  line,  as  he 
ascended.  The  centre  of  each  line  produced  the 
richest  pans,  while  the  ends  came  where  no  colors 
showed  in  the  pan.  And  as  he  ascended  the  hill 
side  the  lines  grew  perceptibly  shorter.  The  regu- 


164  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

larity  with  which  their  length  diminished  served  to 
indicate  that  somewhere  up  the  slope  the  last  line 
would  be  so  short  as  to  have  scarcely  length  at  all, 
and  that  beyond  could  come  only  a  point.  The 
design  was  growing  into  an  inverted  "V."  The 
converging  sides  of  this  "V"  marked  the  boun 
daries  of  the  gold-bearing  dirt. 

The  apex  of  the  "V"  was  evidently  the  man's 
goal.  Often  he  ran  his  eye  along  the  converging 
sides  and  on  up  the  hill,  trying  to  divine  the  apex, 
the  point  where  the  gold-bearing  dirt  must  cease. 
Here  resided  "Mr.  Pocket"  -for  so  the  man 
familiarly  addressed  the  imaginary  point  above 
him  on  the  slope,  crying  out: 

"  Come  down  out  o'  that,  Mr.  Pocket !  Be  right 
smart  an'  agreeable,  an'  come  down!" 

"All  right,"  he  would  add  later,  in  a  voice  re 
signed  to  determination.  "All  right,  Mr.  Pocket. 
It's  plain  to  me  I  got  to  come  right  up  an'  snatch 
you  out  bald-headed.  An'  I'll  do  it !  I'll  do  it!" 
he  would  threaten  still  later. 

Each  pan  he  carried  down  to  the  water  to  wash, 
and  as  he  went  higher  up  the  hill  the  pans  grew 
richer,  until  he  began  to  save  the  gold  in  an  empty 


ALL   GOLD   CANYON  165 

baking-powder  can  which  he  carried  carelessly  in 
his  hip-pocket.  So  engrossed  was  he  in  his  toil  that 
he  did  not  notice  the  long  twilight  of  oncoming 
night.  It  was  not  until  he  tried  vainly  to  see  the 
gold  colors  in  the  bottom  of  the  pan  that  he  realized 
the  passage  of  time.  He  straightened  up  abruptly. 
An  expression  of  whimsical  wonderment  and  awe 
overspread  his  face  as  he  drawled : 

"Gosh  darn  my  buttons!  if  I  didn't  plumb  for 
get  dinner ! " 

He  stumbled  across  the  stream  in  the  darkness 
and  lighted  his  long-delayed  fire.  Flapjacks  and 
bacon  and  warmed-over  beans  constituted  his  sup 
per.  Then  he  smoked  a  pipe  by  the  smouldering 
coals,  listening  to  the  night  noises  and  watching 
the  moonlight  stream  through  the  canyon.  After 
that  he  unrolled  his  bed,  took  off  his  heavy  shoes, 
and  pulled  the  blankets  up  to  his  chin.  His  face 
showed  white  in  the  moonlight,  like  the  face  of  a 
corpse.  But  it  was  a  corpse  that  knew  its  resur 
rection,  for  the  man  rose  suddenly  on  one  elbow 
and  gazed  across  at  his  hillside. 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Pocket,"  he  called  sleepily. 
"Good  night." 


166  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

He  slept  through  the  early  gray  of  morning  until 
the  direct  rays  of  the  sun  smote  his  closed  eyelids, 
when  he  awoke  with  a  start  and  looked  about  him 
until  he  had  established  the  continuity  of  his  exist 
ence  and  identified  his  present  self  with  the  days 
previously  lived. 

To  dress,  he  had  merely  to  buckle  on  his  shoes. 
He  glanced  at  his  fireplace  and  at  his  hillside, 
wavered,  but  fought  down  the  temptation  and 
started  the  fire. 

"Keep  yer  shirt  on,  Bill;  keep  yer  shirt  on,"  he 
admonished  himself.  "What's  the  good  of  rushin'  ? 
No  use  in  gettin'  all  het  up  an'  sweaty.  Mr.  Pocket  '11 
wait  for  you.  He  ain't  a-runnin'  away  before  you 
can  get  yer  breakfast.  Now,  what  you  want,  Bill, 
is  something  fresh  in  yer  bill  o'  fare.  So  it's  up  to 
you  to  go  an'  get  it." 

He  cut  a  short  pole  at  the  water's  edge  and  drew 
from  one  of  his  pockets  a  bit  of  line  and  a  draggled 
fly  that  had  once  been  a  royal  coachman. 

"Mebbe  they'll  bite  in  the  early  morning,"  he 
muttered,  as  he  made  his  first  cast  into  the  pool. 
And  a  moment  later  he  was  gleefully  crying: 
"What  'd  I  tell  you,  eh  ?  What  'd  I  tell  you  ?" 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  167 

He  had  no  reel,  nor  any  inclination  to  waste 
time,  and  by  main  strength,  and  swiftly,  he  drew 
out  of  the  water  a  flashing  ten-inch  trout.  Three 
more,  caught  in  rapid  succession,  furnished  his 
breakfast.  When  he  came  to  the  stepping-stones 
on  his  way  to  his  hillside,  he  was  struck  by  a  sudden 
thought,  and  paused. 

"I'd  just  better  take  a  hike  down-stream  a  ways," 
he  said.  "There's  no  tellin'  what  cuss  may  be 
snoopin'  around." 

But  he  crossed  over  on  the  stones,  and  with  a 
"I  really  oughter  take  that  hike,"  the  need  of  the 
precaution  passed  out  of  his  mind  and  he  fell  to 
work. 

At  nightfall  he  straightened  up.  The  small  of 
his  back  was  stiff  from  stooping  toil,  and  as  he  put 
his  hand  behind  him  to  soothe  the  protesting  mus 
cles,  he  said: 

"Now  what  d'ye  think  of  that,  by  damn?  I 
clean  forgot  my  dinner  again !  If  I  don't  watch 
out,  I'll  sure  be  degeneratin'  into  a  two-meal-a-day 
crank." 

"Pockets  is  the  damnedest  things  I  ever  see  for 
makin'  a  man  absent-minded,"  he  communed  that 


168  ALL   GOLD    CANYON 

night,  as  he  crawled  into  his  blankets.  Nor  did  he 
forget  to  call  up  the  hillside,  "Good  night,  Mr. 
Pocket!  Good  night!" 

Rising  with  the  sun,  and  snatching  a  hasty  break 
fast,  he  was  early  at  work.  A  fever  seemed  to  be 
growing  in  him,  nor  did  the  increasing  richness  of 
the  test-pans  allay  this  fever.  There  was  a  flush 
in  his  cheek  other  than  that  made  by  the  heat  of 
the  sun,  and  he  was  oblivious  to  fatigue  and  the 
passage  of  time.  When  he  rilled  a  pan  with  dirt, 
he  ran  down  the  hill  to  wash  it;  nor  could  he  for 
bear  running  up  the  hill  again,  panting  and  stum 
bling  profanely,  to  refill  the  pan. 

He  was  now  a  hundred  yards  from  the  water,  and 
the  inverted  "V"  was  assuming  definite  proportions. 
The  width  of  the  pay-dirt  steadily  decreased,  and  the 
man  extended  in  his  mind's  eye  the  sides  of  the 
"V"  to  their  meeting-place  far  up  the  hill.  This 
was  his  goal,  the  apex  of  the  "V,"  and  he  panned 
many  times  to  locate  it. 

"Just  about  two  yards  above  that  manzanita 
bush  an'  a  yard  to  the  right,"  he  finally  concluded. 

Then  the  temptation  seized  him.  "As  plain  as 
the  nose  on  your  face,"  he  said,  as  he  abandoned 


ALL    GOLD    CANYON  169 

his  laborious  cross-cutting  and  climbed  to  the  in 
dicated  apex.  He  filled  a  pan  and  carried  it  down 
the  hill  to  wash.  It  contained  no  trace  of  gold.  He 
dug  deep,  and  he  dug  shallow,  filling  and  washing 
a  dozen  pans,  and  was  unrewarded  even  by  the 
tiniest  golden  speck.  He  was  enraged  at  having 
yielded  to  the  temptation,  and  cursed  himself 
blasphemously  and  pridelessly.  Then  he  went 
down  the  hill  and  took  up  the  cross-cutting. 

"Slow  an'  certain,  Bill;  slow  an'  certain,"  he 
crooned.  "Short-cuts  to  fortune  ain't  in  your 
line,  an'  it's  about  time  you  know  it.  Get  wise, 
Bill;  get  wise.  Slow  an'  certain's  the  only  hand 
you  can  play;  so  go  to  it,  an'  keep  to  it,  too." 

As  the  cross-cuts  decreased,  showing  that  the 
sides  of  the  "V"  were  converging,  the  depth  of  the 
"V"  increased.  The  gold-trace  was  dipping  into 
the  hill.  It  was  only  at  thirty  inches  beneath  the 
surface  that  he  could  get  colors  in  his  pan.  The 
dirt  he  found  at  twenty-five  inches  from  the  surface, 
and  at  thirty-five  inches,  yielded  barren  pans.  At 
the  base  of  the  "V,"  by  the  water's  edge,  he  had 
found  the  gold  colors  at  the  grass  roots.  The  higher 
he  went  up  the  hill,  the  deeper  the  gold  dipped. 


170  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

To  dig  a  hole  three  feet  deep  in  order  to  get  one 
test-pan  was  a  task  of  no  mean  magnitude;  while 
between  the  man  and  the  apex  intervened  an  un 
told  number  of  such  holes  to  be  dug.  "An'  there's 
no  tellin'  how  much  deeper  it  '11  pitch,"  he  sighed, 
in  a  moment's  pause,  while  his  ringers  soothed  his 
aching  back. 

Feverish  with  desire,  with  aching  back  and 
stiffening  muscles,  with  pick  and  shovel  gouging 
and  mauling  the  soft  brown  earth,  the  man  toiled 
up  the  hill.  Before  him  was  the  smooth  slope, 
spangled  with  flowers  and  made  sweet  with  their 
breath.  Behind  him  was  devastation.  It  looked 
like  some  terrible  eruption  breaking  out  on  the 
smooth  skin  of  the  hill.  His  slow  progress  was  like 
that  of  a  slug,  befouling  beauty  with  a  monstrous 
trail. 

Though  the  dipping  gold-trace  increased  the 
man's  work,  he  found  consolation  in  the  increasing 
/  richness  of  the  pans.  Twenty  cents,  thirty  cents, 
fifty  cents,  sixty  cents,  were  the  values  of  the  gold 
found  in  the  pans,  and  at  nightfall  he  washed  his 
banner  pan,  which  gave  him  a  dollar's  worth  of 
gold-dust  from  a  shovelful  of  dirt. 


ALL    GOLD    CANYON  171 

"I'll  just  bet  it's  my  luck  to  have  some  inquisi 
tive  cuss  come  buttin'  in  here  on  my  pasture,"  he 
mumbled  sleepily  that  night  as  he  pulled  the  blankets 
up  to  his  chin. 

Suddenly  he  sat  upright.  "Bill!"  he  called 
sharply.  "Now,  listen  to  me,  Bill;  d'ye  hear! 
It's  up  to  you,  to-morrow  mornin',  to  mosey  round 
an'  see  what  you  can  see.  Understand  ?  To 
morrow  morning,  an'  don't  you  forget  it!" 

He  yawned  and  glanced  across  at  his  side-hill. 
"Good  night,  Mr.  Pocket,"  he  called. 

In  the  morning  he  stole  a  march  on  the  sun,  for 
he  had  finished  breakfast  when  its  first  rays  caught 
him,  and  he  was  climbing  the  wall  of  the  canyon 
where  it  crumbled  away  and  gave  footing.  From 
the  outlook  at  the  top  he  found  himself  in  the  midst 
of  loneliness.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  chain  after 
chain  of  mountains  heaved  themselves  into  his 
vision.  To  the  east  his  eyes,  leaping  the  miles 
between  range  and  range  and  between  many  ranges, 
brought  up  at  last  against  the  white-peaked 
Sierras  —  the  main  crest,  where  the  backbone  of 
the  Western  world  reared  itself  against  the  sky. 
To  the  north  and  south  he  could  see  more  distinctly 


172  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

the  cross-systems  that  broke  through  the  main  trend 
of  the  sea  of  mountains.  To  the  west  the  ranges 
fell  away,  one  behind  the  other,  diminishing  and 
fading  into  the  gentle  foothills  that,  in  turn,  de 
scended  into  the  great  valley  which  he  could  not  see. 

And  in  all  that  mighty  sweep  of  earth  he  saw  no 
sign  of  man  nor  of  the  handiwork  of  man  —  save 
only  the  torn  bosom  of  the  hillside  at  his  feet. 
The  man  looked  long  and  carefully.  Once,  far 
down  his  own  canyon,  he  thought  he  saw  in  the  air 
a  faint  hint  of  smoke.  He  looked  again  and  decided 
that  it  was  the  purple  haze  of  the  hills  made  dark 
by  a  convolution  of  the  canyon  wall  at  its  back. 

"Hey,  you,  Mr.  Pocket!'*  he  called  down  into 
the  canyon.  "Stand  out  from  under!  I'm 
a-comin',  Mr.  Pocket!  I'm  a-comin'!" 

The  heavy  brogans  on  the  man's  feet  made  him 
appear  clumsy-footed,  but  he  swung  down  from  the 
giddy  height  as  lightly  and  airily  as  a  mountain 
goat.  A  rock,  turning  under  his  foot  on  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  did  not  disconcert  him.  He  seemed 
to  know  the  precise  time  required  for  the  turn  to 
culminate  in  disaster,  and  in  the  meantime  he 
utilized  the  false  footing  itself  for  the  momentary 


ALL   GOLD   CANYON  173 

earth-contact  necessary  to  carry  him  on  into  safety. 
Where  the  earth  sloped  so  steeply  that  it  was  im 
possible  to  stand  for  a  second  upright,  the  man  did 
not  hesitate.  His  foot  pressed  the  impossible  sur 
face  for  but  a  fraction  of  the  fatal  second  and  gave 
him  the  bound  that  carried  him  onward.  Again, 
where  even  the  fraction  of  a  second's  footing  was 
out  of  the  question,  he  would  swing  his  body  past 
by  a  moment's  hand-grip  on  a  jutting  knob  of  rock, 
a  crevice,  or  a  precariously  rooted  shrub.  At  last, 
with  a  wild  leap  and  yell,  he  exchanged  the  face  of 
the  wall  for  an  earth-slide  and  finished  the  descent 
in  the  midst  of  several  tons  of  sliding  earth  and  gravel. 
His  first  pan  of  the  morning  washed  out  over 
two  dollars  in  coarse  gold.  It  was  from  the  centre 
of  the  "V."  To  either  side  the  diminution  in  the 
values  of  the  pans  was  swift.  His  lines  of  cross- 
cutting  holes  were  growing  very  short.  The  con 
verging  sides  of  the  inverted  "V"  were  only  a  few 
yards  apart.  Their  meeting-point  was  only  a  few 
yards  above  him.  But  the  pay-streak  was  dipping 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  earth.  By  early  after 
noon  he  was  sinking  the  test-holes  five  feet  before 
the  pans  could  show  the  gold-trace. 


174  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

For  that  matter,  the  gold-trace  had  become  some 
thing  more  than  a  trace;  it  was  a  placer  mine  in 
itself,  and  the  man  resolved  to  come  back  after  he 
had  found  the  pocket  and  work  over  the  ground. 
But  the  increasing  richness  of  the  pans  began  to 
worry  him.  By  late  afternoon  the  worth  of  the 
pans  had  grown  to  three  and  four  dollars.  The 
man  scratched  his  head  perplexedly  and  looked  a 
few  feet  up  the  hill  at  the  manzanita  bush  that 
marked  approximately  the  apex  of  the  "V."  He 
nodded  his  head  and  said  oracularly: 

"It's  one  o'  two  things,  Bill;  one  o'  two  things. 
Either  Mr.  Pocket's  spilled  himself  all  out  an' 
down  the  hill,  or  else  Mr.  Pocket's  that  damned 
rich  you  maybe  won't  be  able  to  carry  him  all 
away  with  you.  And  that  'd  be  hell,  wouldn't  it, 
now?"  He  chuckled  at  contemplation  of  so  pleas 
ant  a  dilemma. 

Nightfall  found  him  by  the  edge  of  the  stream, 
his  eyes  wrestling  with  the  gathering  darkness  over 
the  washing  of  a  five-dollar  pan. 

"Wisht  I  had  an  electric  light  to  go  on  working," 
he  said. 

He  found  sleep  difficult  that  night.     Many  times 


ALL    GOLD    CANYON  175 

he  composed  himself  and  closed  his  eyes  for  slumber 
to  overtake  him;  but  his  blood  pounded  with  too 
strong  desire,  and  as  many  times  his  eyes  opened 
and  he  murmured  wearily,  "Wisht  it  was  sun-up." 

Sleep  came  to  him  in  the  end,  but  his  eyes  were 
open  with  the  first  paling  of  the  stars,  and  the  gray 
of  dawn  caught  him  with  breakfast  finished  and 
climbing  the  hillside  in  the  direction  of  the  secret 
abiding-place  of  Mr.  Pocket. 

The  first  cross-cut  the  man  made,  there  was  space 
for  only  three  holes,  so  narrow  had  become  the  pay- 
streak  and  so  close  was  he  to  the  fountainhead  of 
the  golden  stream  he  had  been  following  for  four 
days. 

"Be  ca'm,  Bill;  be  ca'm,"  he  admonished  him 
self,  as  he  broke  ground  for  the  final  hole  where  the 
sides  of  the  "V"  had  at  last  come  together  in  a 
point. 

"I've  got  the  almighty  cinch  on  you,  Mr.  Pocket, 
an'  you  can't  lose  me,"  he  said  many  times  as  he 
sank  the  hole  deeper  and  deeper. 

Four  feet,  five  feet,  six  feet,  he  dug  his  way  down 
into  the  earth.  The  digging  grew  harder.  His 
pick  grated  on  broken  rock.  He  examined  the  rock. 


176  ALL   GOLD   CANYON 

"Rotten  quartz,"  was  his  conclusion  as,  with  the 
shovel,  he  cleared  the  bottom  of  the  hole  of  loose 
dirt.  He  attacked  the  crumbling  quartz  with  the 
pick,  bursting  the  disintegrating  rock  asunder  with 
every  stroke. 

He  thrust  his  shovel  into  the  loose  mass.  His 
eye  caught  a  gleam  of  yellow.  He  dropped  the  shovel 
and  squatted  suddenly  on  his  heels.  As  a  farmer 
rubs  the  clinging  earth  from  fresh-dug  potatoes,  so 
the  man,  a  piece  of  rotten  quartz  held  in  both  hands, 
rubbed  the  dirt  away. 

"Sufferin'  Sardanopolis !"  he  cried.  "Lumps 
an*  chunks  of  it!  Lumps  an'  chunks  of  it!" 

It  was  only  half  rock  he  held  in  his  hand.  The 
other  half  was  virgin  gold.  He  dropped  it  into  his 
pan  and  examined  another  piece.  Little  yellow  was 
to  be  seen,  but  with  his  strong  fingers  he  crumbled 
the  rotten  quartz  away  till  both  hands  were  filled 
with  glowing  yellow.  He  rubbed  the  dirt  away 
from  fragment  after  fragment,  tossing  them  into  the 
gold-pan.  It  was  a  treasure-hole.  So  much  had 
the  quartz  rotted  away  that  there  was  less  of  it 
than  there  was  of  gold.  Now  and  again  he  found 
a  piece  to  which  no  rock  clung  —  a  piece  that  was 


ALL    GOLD    CANYON  177 

all  gold.  A  chunk,  where  the  pick  had  laid  open 
the  heart  of  the  gold,  glittered  like  a  handful  of 
yellow  jewels,  and  he  cocked  his  head  at  it  and 
slowly  turned  it  around  and  over  to  observe  the 
rich  play  of  the  light  upon  it. 

"Talk  about  yer  Too  Much  Gold  diggin's!" 
the  man  snorted  contemptuously.  "Why,  this 
diggin'  'd  make  it  look  like  thirty  cents.  This 
diggin'  is  All  Gold.  An'  right  here  an'  now  I  name 
this  yere  canyon  'All  Gold  Canyon,'  b'  gosh!" 

Still  squatting  on  his  heels,  he  continued  examining 
the  fragments  and  tossing  them  into  the  pan.  Sud 
denly  there  came  to  him  a  premonition  of  danger. 
It  seemed  a  shadow  had  fallen  upon  him.  But 
there  was  no  shadow.  His  heart  had  given  a  great 
jump  up  into  his  throat  and  was  choking  him. 
Then  his  blood  slowly  chilled  and  he  felt  the  sweat 
of  his  shirt  cold  against  his  flesh. 

He  did  not  spring  up  nor  look  around.  He  did 
not  move.  He  was  considering  the  nature  of  the 
premonition  he  had  received,  trying  to  locate  the 
source  of  the  mysterious  force  that  had  warned 
him,  striving  to  sense  the  imperative  presence  of  the 
unseen  thing  that  threatened  him.  There  is  an  aura 


178  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

of  things  hostile,  made  manifest  by  messengers  too 
refined  for  the  senses  to  know;  and  this  aura  he 
felt,  but  knew  not  how  he  felt  it.  His  was  the  feel 
ing  as  when  a  cloud  passes  over  the  sun.  It  seemed 
that  between  him  and  life  had  passed  something 
dark  and  smothering  and  menacing;  a  gloom,  as 
it  were,  that  swallowed  up  life  and  made  for  death 
—  his  death. 

Every  force  of  his  being  impelled  him  to  spring 
up  and  confront  the  unseen  danger,  but  his  soul 
dominated  the  panic,  and  he  remained  squatting 
on  his  heels,  in  his  hands  a  chunk  of  gold.  He 
did  not  dare  to  look  around,  but  he  knew  by  now 
that  there  was  something  behind  him  and  above 
him.  He  made  believe  to  be  interested  in  the  gold 
in  his  hand.  He  examined  it  critically,  turned  it 
over  and  over,  and  rubbed  the  dirt  from  it.  And  all 
the  time  he  knew  that  something  behind  him  was 
looking  at  the  gold  over  his  shoulder. 

Still  feigning  interest  in  the  chunk  of  gold  in  his 
hand,  he  listened  intently  and  he  heard  the  breath 
ing  of  the  thing  behind  him.  His  eyes  searched  the 
ground  in  front  of  him  for  a  weapon,  but  they  saw 
only  the  uprooted  gold,  worthless  to  him  now  in 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  179 

his  extremity.  There  was  his  pick,  a  handy  weapon 
on  occasion;  but  this  was  not  such  an  occasion. 
The  man  realized  his  predicament.  He  was  in  a 
narrow  hole  that  was  seven  feet  deep.  His  head 
did  not  come  to  the  surface  of  the  ground.  He  was 
in  a  trap. 

He  remained  squatting  on  his  heels.  He  was 
quite  cool  and  collected;  but  his  mind,  considering 
every  factor,  showed  him  only  his  helplessness. 
He  continued  rubbing  the  dirt  from  the  quartz 
fragments  and  throwing  the  gold  into  the  pan. 
There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  Yet  he 
knew  that  he  would  have  to  rise  up,  sooner  or  later, 
and  face  the  danger  that  breathed  at  his  back. 
The  minutes  passed,  and  with  the  passage  of  each 
minute  he  knew  that  by  so  much  he  was  nearer 
the  time  when  he  must  stand  up,  or  else  —  and  his 
wet  shirt  went  cold  against  his  flesh  again  at  the 
thought  —  or  else  he  might  receive  death  as  he 
stooped  there  over  his  treasure. 

Still  he  squatted  on  his  heels,  rubbing  dirt  from 
gold  and  debating  in  just  what  manner  he  should 
rise  up.  He  might  rise  up  with  a  rush  and  claw 
his  way  out  of  the  hole  to  meet  whatever  threatened 


i8o  ALL    GOLD    CANYON 

on  the  even  footing  above  ground.  Or  he  might 
rise  up  slowly  and  carelessly,  and  feign  casually  to 
discover  the  thing  that  breathed  at  his  back.  His 
instinct  and  every  fighting  fibre  of  his  body  favored 
the  mad,  clawing  rush  to  the  surface.  His  intellect, 
and  the  craft  thereof,  favored  the  slow  and  cautious 
meeting  with  the  thing  that  menaced  and  which  he 
could  not  see.  And  while  he  debated,  a  loud,  crash 
ing  noise  burst  on  his  ear.  At  the  same  instant  he 
received  a  stunning  blow  on  the  left  side  of  the 
back,  and  from  the  point  of  impact  felt  a  rush  of 
flame  through  his  flesh.  He  sprang  up  in  the  air, 
but  halfway  to  his  feet  collapsed.  His  body  crumpled 
in  like  a  leaf  withered  in  sudden  heat,  and  he  came 
down,  his  chest  across  his  pan  of  gold,  his  face  in 
the  dirt  and  rock,  his  legs  tangled  and  twisted  be 
cause  of  the  restricted  space  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hole.  His  legs  twitched  convulsively  several  times. 
His  body  was  shaken  as  with  a  mighty  ague.  There 
was  a  slow  expansion  of  the  lungs,  accompanied  by 
a  deep  sigh.  Then  the  air  was  slowly,  very  slowly, 
exhaled,  and  his  body  as  slowly  flattened  itself  down 
into  inertness. 

Above,  revolver  in  hand,  a  man  was  peering  down 


ALL   GOLD   CANYON  181 

over  the  edge  of  the  hole.  He  peered  for  a  long 
time  at  the  prone  and  motionless  body  beneath  him. 
After  a  while  the  stranger  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
the  hole  so  that  he  could  see  into  it,  and  rested  the 
revolver  on  his  knee.  Reaching  his  hand  into  a 
pocket,  he  drew  out  a  wisp  of  brown  paper.  Into 
this  he  dropped  a  few  crumbs  of  tobacco.  The 
combination  became  a  cigarette,  brown  and  squat, 
with  the  ends  turned  in.  Not  once  did  he  take  his 
eyes  from  the  body  at  the  bottom  of  the  hole.  He 
lighted  the  cigarette  and  drew  its  smoke  into  his 
lungs  with  a  caressing  intake  of  the  breath.  He 
smoked  slowly.  Once  the  cigarette  went  out  and 
he  relighted  it.  And  all  the  while  he  studied  the 
body  beneath  him. 

In  the  end  he  tossed  the  cigarette  stub  away  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  He  moved  to  the  edge  of  the  hole. 
Spanning  it,  a  hand  resting  on  each  edge,  and  with 
the  revolver  st'll  in  the  right  hand,  he  muscled  his 
body  down  into  the  hole.  While  his  feet  were  yet 
a  yard  from  the  bottom  he  released  his  hands  and 
dropped  down. 

At  the  instant  his  feet  struck  bottom  he  saw  the 
pocket-miner's  arm  leap  out,  and  his  own  legs  knew 


i82  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

a  swift,  jerking  grip  that  overthrew  him.  In  the 
nature  of  the  jump  his  revolver-hand  was  above  his 
head.  Swiftly  as  the  grip  had  flashed  about  his 
legs,  just  as  swiftly  he  brought  the  revolver  down. 
He  was  still  in  the  air,  his  fall  in  process  of  comple 
tion,  when  he  pulled  the  trigger.  The  explosion 
was  deafening  in  the  confined  space.  The  smoke 
rilled  the  hole  so  that  he  could  see  nothing.  He 
struck  the  bottom  on  his  back,  and  like  a  cat's  the 
pocket-miner's  body  was  on  top  of  him.  Even  as 
the  miner's  body  passed  on  top,  the  stranger  crooked 
in  his  right  arm  to  fire;  and  even  in  that  instant  the 
miner,  with  a  quick  thrust  of  elbow,  struck  his 
wrist.  The  muzzle  was  thrown  up  and  the  bullet 
thudded  into  the  dirt  of  the  side  of  the  hole. 

The  next  instant  the  stranger  felt  the  miner's 
hand  grip  his  wrist.  The  struggle  was  now  for  the 
revolver.  Each  man  strove  to  turn  it  against  the 
other's  body.  The  smoke  in  the  hole  was  clear 
ing.  The  stranger,  lying  on  his  back,  \vas  begin 
ning  to  see  dimly.  But  suddenly  he  was  blinded 
by  a  handful  of  dirt  deliberately  flung  into  his  eyes 
by  his  antagonist.  In  that  moment  of  shock  his 
grip  on  the  revolver  was  broken.  In  the  next 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  183 

moment  he  felt  a  smashing  darkness  descend  upon 
his  brain,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  darkness  even  the 
darkness  ceased. 

But  the  pocket-miner  fired  again  and  again,  until 
the  revolver  was  empty.  Then  he  tossed  it  from 
him  and,  breathing  heavily,  sat  down  on  the  dead 
man's  legs. 

The  miner  was  sobbing  and  struggling  for  breath. 
"Measly  skunk!"  he  panted;  "a-campin'  on  my 
trail  an*  lettin'  me  do  the  work,  an'  then  shootin' 
me  in  the  back !" 

He  was  half  crying  from  anger  and  exhaustion. 
He  peered  at  the  face  of  the  dead  man.  It  was 
sprinkled  with  loose  dirt  and  gravel,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  distinguish  the  features. 

"Never  laid  eyes  on  him  before,"  the  miner  con 
cluded  his  scrutiny.  "Just  a  common  an'  ordinary 
thief,  damn  him !  An'  he  shot  me  in  the  back ! 
He  shot  me  in  the  back!" 

He  opened  his  shirt  and  felt  himself,  front  and 
back,  on  his  left  side. 

"Went  clean  through,  and  no  harm  done!"  he 
cried  jubilantly.  "I'll  bet  he  aimed  all  right  all 
right;  but  he  drew  the  gun  over  when  he  pulled 


184  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

the  trigger  —  the  cuss  !  But  I  fixed  'm !  Oh,  I 
fixed  'm!" 

His  fingers  were  investigating  the  bullet-hole  in 
his  side,  and  a  shade  of  regret  passed  over  his  face. 
"It's  goin'  to  be  stiffer'n  hell/'  he  said.  "An'  it's 
up  to  me  to  get  mended  an'  get  out  o'  here." 

He  crawled  out  of  the  hole  and  went  down  the 
hill  to  his  camp.  Half  an  hour  later  he  returned, 
leading  his  pack-horse.  His  open  shirt  disclosed 
the  rude  bandages  with  which  he  had  dressed  his 
wound.  He  was  slow  and  awkward  with  his  left- 
hand  movements,  but  that  did  not  prevent  his 
using  the  arm. 

The  bight  of  the  pack-rope  under  the  dead  man's 
shoulders  enabled  him  to  heave  the  body  out  of  the 
hole.  Then  he  set  to  work  gathering  up  his  gold. 
He  worked  steadily  for  several  hours,  pausing  often 
to  rest  his  stiffening  shoulder  and  to  exclaim: 

"He  shot  me  in  the  back,  the  measly  skunk !  He 
shot  me  in  the  back !" 

When  his  treasure  was  quite  cleaned  up  and 
wrapped  securely  into  a  number  of  blanket-covered 
parcels,  he  made  an  estimate  of  its  value. 

"Four    hundred    pounds,   or    I'm   a   Hottentot," 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  185 

he  concluded.  "Say  two  hundred  in  quartz  an' 
dirt  —  that  leaves  two  hundred  pounds  of  gold. 
Bill !  Wake  up !  Two  hundred  pounds  of  gold ! 
Forty  thousand  dollars !  An'  it's  yourn  —  all 
yourn !" 

He  scratched  his  head  delightedly  and  his  fingers 
blundered  into  an  unfamiliar  groove.  They  quested 
along  it  for  several  inches.  It  was  a  crease  through 
his  scalp  where  the  second  bullet  had  ploughed. 

He  walked  angrily  over  to  the  dead  man. 

"You  would,  would  you?"  he  bullied.  "You 
would,  eh  ?  Well,  I  fixed  you  good  an'  plenty,  an' 
I'll  give  you  decent  burial,  too.  That's  more'n 
you'd  have  done  for  me." 

He  dragged  the  body  to  the  edge  of  the  hole  and 
toppled  it  in.  It  struck  the  bottom  with  a  dull 
crash,  on  its  side,  the  face  twisted  up  to  the  light. 
The  miner  peered  down  at  it. 

"An'  you  shot  me  in  the  back!"  he  said  ac 
cusingly. 

With  pick  and  shovel  he  filled  the  hole.  Then 
he  loaded  the  gold  on  his  horse.  It  was  too  great 
a  load  for  the  animal,  and  when  he  had  gained  his 
camp  he  transferred  part  of  it  to  his  saddle-horse. 


i86  ALL    GOLD   CANYON 

Even  so,  he  was  compelled  to  abandon  a  portion  of 
his  outfit  —  pick  and  shovel  and  gold-pan,  extra 
food  and  cooking  utensils,  and  divers  odds  and 
ends. 

The  sun  was  at  the  zenith  when  the  man  forced 
the  horses  at  the  screen  of  vines  and  creepers.  To 
climb  the  huge  boulders  the  animals  were  compelled 
to  uprear  and  struggle  blindly  through  the  tangled 
mass  of  vegetation.  Once  the  saddle-horse  fell 
heavily  and  the  man  removed  the  pack  to  get  the 
animal  on  its  feet.  After  it  started  on  its  way  again 
the  man  thrust  his  head  out  from  among  the  leaves 
and  peered  up  at  the  hillside. 

"The  measly  skunk!"    he  said,  and  disappeared. 

There  was  a  ripping  and  tearing  of  vines  and 
boughs.  The  trees  surged  back  and  forth,  mark 
ing  the  passage  of  the  animals  through  the  midst 
of  them.  There  was  a  clashing  of  steel-shod  hoofs 
on  stone,  and  now  and  again  an  oath  or  a  sharp 
cry  of  command.  Then  the  voice  of  the  man  was 
raised  in  song :  — 

"  Tu'n  around  an'  tu'n  yo'  face 
Untoe  them  sweet  hills  of  grace 
(DJ  pow'rs  of  sin  yoj  am  scornin' !). 


ALL    GOLD   CANYON  187 

Look  about  an'  look  aroun', 
Fling  yo'  sin-pack  on  d'  groun' 

(Yo'  will  meet  wid  d'  Lord  in  d'  mornin' !)." 

The  song  grew  faint  and  fainter,  and  through  the 
silence  crept  back  the  spirit  of  the  place.  The 
stream  once  more  drowsed  and  whispered;  the  hum 
of  the  mountain  bees  rose  sleepily.  Down  through 
the  perfume-weighted  air  fluttered  the  snowy  fluffs 
of  the  cottonwoods.  The  butterflies  drifted  in  and 
out  among  the  trees,  and  over  all  blazed  the  quiet 
sunshine.  Only  remained  the  hoof-marks  in  the 
meadow  and  the  torn  hillside  to  mark  the  boisterous 
trail  of  the  life  that  had  broken  the  peace  of  the 
place  and  passed  on. 


PLANCHETTE 


PLANCHETTE 

ITT  is  my  right  to  know,"  the  girl  said. 
i  Her  voice  was  firm-fibred  with  determina 
tion.  There  was  no  hint  of  pleading  in  it, 
yet  it  was  the  determination  that  is  reached  through 
a  long  period  of  pleading.  But  in  her  case  it 
had  been  pleading,  not  of  speech,  but  of  per 
sonality.  Her  lips  had  been  ever  mute,  but  her 
face  and  eyes,  and  the  very  attitude  of  her  soul, 
had  been  for  a  long  time  eloquent  with  questioning. 
This  the  man  had  known,  but  he  had  never  an 
swered  ;  and  now  she  was  demanding  by  the  spoken 
word  that  he  answer. 

"It  is  my  right,"  the  girl  repeated. 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered,  desperately  and  help 
lessly. 

She  waited,  in  the  silence  which  followed,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  light  that  filtered  down  through 
the  lofty  boughs  and  bathed  the  great  redwood 
trunks  in  mellow  warmth.  This  light,  subdued  and 

191 


i92  PLANCHETTE 

colored,  seemed  almost  a  radiation  from  the  trunks 
themselves,  so  strongly  did  they  saturate  it  with 
their  hue.  The  girl  saw  without  seeing,  as  she 
heard,  without  hearing,  the  deep  gurgling  of  the 
stream  far  below  on  the  canyon  bottom. 

She  looked  down  at  the  man.  "Well?"  she 
asked,  with  the  firmness  which  feigns  belief  that 
obedience  will  be  forthcoming. 

She  was  sitting  upright,  her  back  against  a  fallen 
tree-trunk,  while  he  lay  near  to  her,  on  his  side,  an 
elbow  on  the  ground  and  the  hand  supporting  his 
head. 

"Dear,  dear  Lute,"  he  murmured. 

She  shivered  at  the  sound  of  his  voice  —  not  from 
repulsion,  but  from  struggle  against  the  fascination 
of  its  caressing  gentleness.  She  had  come  to  know 
well  the  lure  of  the  man  —  the  wealth  of  easement 
and  rest  that  was  promised  by  every  caressing 
intonation  of  his  voice,  by  the  mere  touch  of  hand 
on  hand  or  the  faint  impact  of  his  breath  on  neck 
or  cheek.  The  man  could  not  express  himself  by 
word  nor  look  nor  touch  without  weaving  into  the 
expression,  subtly  and  occultly,  the  feeling  as  of  a 
hand  that  passed  and  that  in  passing  stroked  softly 


PLANCHETTE  i93 

and  soothingly.  Nor  was  this  all-pervading  caress 
a  something  that  cloyed  with  too  great  sweetness; 
nor  was  it  sickly  sentimental;  nor  was  it  maudlin 
with  love's  madness.  It  was  vigorous,  compelling, 
masculine.  For  that  matter,  it  was  largely  un 
conscious  on  the  man's  part.  He  was  only  dimly 
aware  of  it.  It  was  a  part  of  him,  the  breath  of  his 
soul  as  it  were,  involuntary  and  unpremeditated. 

But  now,  resolved  and  desperate,  she  steeled  her 
self  against  him.  He  tried  to  face  her,  but  her  gray 
eyes  looked  out  to  him,  steadily,  from  under  cool, 
level  brows,  and  he  dropped  his  head  upon  her 
knee.  Her  hand  strayed  into  his  hair  softly,  and 
her  face  melted  into  solicitude  and  tenderness. 
But  when  he  looked  up  again,  her  gray  eyes  were 
steady,  her  brows  cool  and  level. 

"What  more  can  I  tell  you?"  the  man  said. 
He  raised  his  head  and  met  her  gaze.  "I  cannot 
marry  you.  I  cannot  marry  any  woman.  I  love 
you  —  you  know  that  —  better  than  my  own  life. 
I  weigh  you  in  the  scales  against  all  the  dear  things 
of  living,  and  you  outweigh  everything.  I  would 
give  everything  to  possess  you,  yet  I  may  not.  I 
cannot  marry  you.  I  can  never  marry  you." 


i94  PLANCHETTE 

Her  lips  were  compressed  with  the  effort  of  con 
trol.  His  head  was  sinking  back  to  her  knee,  when 
she  checked  him. 

"You  are  already  married,  Chris  ?" 

"No!  no!"  he  cried  vehemently.  "I  have  never 
been  married.  I  want  to  marry  only  you,  and  I 


cannot ! 
"Then—" 


"Don't!"    he  interrupted.     "Don't  ask  me!" 

"It  is  my  right  to  know,"  she  repeated. 

"I  know  it,"  he  again  interrupted.  "But  I  can 
not  tell  you.'" 

"You  have  not  considered  me,  Chris,"  she  went 
on  gently. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  he  broke  in. 

"You  cannot  have  considered  me.  You  do  not 
know  what  I  have  to  bear  from  my  people  because 
of  you." 

"  I  did  not  think  they  felt  so  very  unkindly  toward 
me,"  he  said  bitterly. 

"It  is  true.  They  can  scarcely  tolerate  you. 
They  do  not  show  it  to  you,  but  they  almost  hate 
you.  It  is  I  who  have  had  to  bear  all  this.  It 
was  not  always  so,  though.  They  liked  you  at  first 


PLANCHETTE  195 

as  ...  as  I  liked  you.  But  that  was  four  years 
ago.  The  time  passed  by  —  a  year,  two  years ; 
and  then  they  began  to  turn  against  you.  They  are 
not  to  be  blamed.  You  spoke  no  word.  They  felt 
that  you  were  destroying  my  life.  It  is  four  years, 
now,  and  you  have  never  once  mentioned  marriage 
to  them.  What  were  they  to  think  ?  What  they 
have  thought,  that  you  were  destroying  my  life." 

As  she  talked,  she  continued  to  pass  her  fingers 
caressingly  through  his  hair,  sorrowful  for  the  pain 
that  she  was  inflicting. 

"They  did  like  you  at  first.  Who  can  help  liking 
you  ?  You  seem  to  draw  affection  from  all  living 
things,  as  the  trees  draw  the  moisture  from  the 
ground.  It  comes  to  you  as  it  were  your  birth 
right.  Aunt  Mildred  and  Uncle  Robert  thought 
there  was  nobody  like  you.  The  sun  rose  and  set 
in  you.  They  thought  I  was  the  luckiest  girl  alive 
to  win  the  love  of  a  man  like  you.  'For  it  looks 
very  much  like  it,'  Uncle  Robert  used  to  say,  wagging 
his  head  wickedly  at  me.  Of  course  they  liked  you. 
Aunt  Mildred  used  to  sigh,  and  look  across  teasingly 
at  Uncle,  and  say,  'When  I  think  of  Chris,  it  almost 
makes  me  wish  I  were  younger  myself/  And  Uncle 


196  PLANCHETTE 

would  answer,  'I  don't  blame  you,  my  dear,  not  in 
the  least.'  And  then  the  pair  of  them  would  beam 
upon  me  their  congratulations  that  I  had  won  the 
love  of  a  man  like  you. 

"And  they  knew  I  loved  you  as  well.  How  could 
I  hide  it  ?  —  this  great,  wonderful  thing  that  had 
entered  into  my  life  and  swallowed  up  all  my  days ! 
For  four  years,  Chris,  I  have  lived  only  for  you. 
Every  moment  was  yours.  Waking,  I  loved  you. 
Sleeping,  I  dreamed  of  you.  Every  act  I  have 
performed  was  shaped  by  you,  by  the  thought 
of  you.  Even  my  thoughts  were  moulded  by 
you,  by  the  invisible  presence  of  you.  I  had  no 
end,  petty  or  great,  that  you  were  not  there 
for  me." 

"I  had  no  idea  of  imposing  such  slavery,"  he 
muttered. 

''You  imposed  nothing.  You  always  let  me  have 
my  own  way.  It  was  you  who  were  the  obedient 
slave.  You  did  for  me  without  offending  me.  You 
forestalled  my  wishes  without  the  semblance  of  fore 
stalling  them,  so  natural  and  inevitable  was  every 
thing  you  did  for  me.  I  said,  without  offending 
me.  You  were  no  dancing  puppet.  You  made 


PLANCHETTE  197 

no  fuss.  Don't  you  see  ?  You  did  not  seem  to  do 
things  at  all.  Somehow  they  were  always  there, 
just  done,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"The  slavery  was  love's  slavery.  It  was  just  my 
love  for  you  that  mad  you  swallow  up  all  my  days. 
You  did  not  force  yourself  into  my  thoughts.  You 
crept  in,  always,  and  you  were  there  always  —  how 
much,  you  will  never  know. 

"But  as  time  went  by,  Aunt  Mildred  and  Uncle 
grew  to  dislike  you.  They  grew  afraid.  What  was 
to  become  of  me  ?  You  were  destroying  my  life. 
My  music  ?  You  know  how  my  dream  of  it  has 
dimmed  away.  That  spring,  when  I  first  met  you 
—  I  was  twenty,  and  I  was  about  to  start  for  Ger 
many.  I  was  going  to  study  hard.  That  was  four 
years  ago,  and  I  am  still  here  in  California. 

"I  had  other  lovers.  You  drove  them  away - 
No !  no !  I  don't  mean  that.  It  was  I  that  drove 
them  away.  What  did  I  care  for  lovers,  for  any 
thing,  when  you  were  near  ?  But  as  I  said,  Aunt 
Mildred  and  Uncle  grew  afraid.  There  has  been 
talk  —  friends,  busybodies,  and  all  the  rest.  The 
time  went  by.  You  did  not  speak.  I  could  only 
wonder,  wonder.  I  knew  you  loved  me.  Much 


198  PLANCHETTE 

was  said  against  you  by  Uncle  at  first,  and  then  by 
Aunt  Mildred.  They  were  father  and  mother  to 
me,  you  know.  I  could  not  defend  you.  Yet  I 
was  loyal  to  you.  I  refused  to  discuss  you.  I 
closed  up.  There  was  half-estrangement  in  my 
home  —  Uncle  Robert  with  a  face  like  an  under 
taker,  and  Aunt  Mildred's  heart  breaking.  But 
what  could  I  do,  Chris  ?  What  could  I  do  ?" 

The  man,  his  head  resting  on  her  knee  again, 
groaned,  but  made  no  other  reply. 

"Aunt  Mildred  was  mother  to  me.  Yet  I -went 
to  her  no  more  with  my  confidences.  My  child 
hood's  book  was  closed.  It  was  a  sweet  book, 
Chris.  The  tears  come  into  my  eyes  sometimes 
when  I  think  of  it.  But  never  mind  that.  Great 
happiness  has  been  mine  as  well.  I  am  glad  I  can 
talk  frankly  of  my  love  for  you..  And  the  attaining 
of  such  frankness  has  been  very  sweet.  I  do  love 
you,  Chris.  I  love  you  ...  I  cannot  tell  you  how. 
You  are  everything  to  me,  and  more  besides.  You 
remember  that  Christmas  tree  of  the  children  ?  — 
when  we  played  blindman's  buff?  and  you  caught 
me  by  the  arm,  so,  with  such  a  clutching  of  fingers 
that  I  cried  out  with  the  hurt  ?  I  never  told  you, 


PLANCHETTE  199 

but  the  arm  was  badly  bruised.  And  such  sweet  I 
got  of  it  you  could  never  guess.  There,  black  and 
blue,  was  the  imprint  of  your  fingers  — your  fingers, 
Chris,  your  fingers.  It  was  the  touch  of  you  made 
visible.  It  was  there  a  week,  and  I  kissed  the 
marks  —  oh,  so  often!  I  hated  to  see  them  go; 
I  wanted  to  rebruise  the  arm  and  make  them 
linger.  I  was  jealous  of  the  returning  white  that 
drove  the  bruise  away.  Somehow,  —  oh!  I  cannot 
explain,  but  I  loved  you  so!" 

In  the  silence  that  fell,  she  continued  her  caressing 
of  his  hair,  while  she  idly  watched  a  great  gray 
squirrel,  boisterous  and  hilarious,  as  it  scampered 
back  and  forth  in  a  distant  vista  of  the  redwoods. 
A  crimson-crested  woodpecker,  energetically  drilling 
a  fallen  trunk,  caught  and  transferred  her  gaze. 
The  man  did  not  lift  his  head.  Rather,  he  crushed 
his  face  closer  against  her  knee,  while  his  heaving 
shoulders  marked  the  hardness  with  which  he 
breathed. 

"You  must  tell  me,  Chris,"  the  girl  said  gently. 

"This  mystery  —  it  is  killing  me.     I  must  know  why 

we  cannot  be  married.    Are  we  always  to  be  this  way  ? 

-  merely  lovers,  meeting  often,  it  is  true,  and  yet 


200  PLANCHETTE 

with  the  long  absences  between  the  meetings  ?  Is  it 
ail  the  world  holds  for  you  and  me,  Chris  ?  Are  we 
never  to  be  more  to  each  other  ?  Oh,  it  is  good  just 
to  love,  I  know  —  you  have  made  me  madly  happy; 
but  one  does  get  so  hungry  at  times  for  something 
more !  I  want  more  and  more  of  you,  Chris.  I 
want  all  of  you.  I  want  all  our  days  to  be  together. 
I  want  all  the  companionship,  the  comradeship, 
which  cannot  be  ours  now,  and  which  will  be  ours 
when  we  are  married  — "  She  caught  her  breath 
quickly.  "But  we  are  never  to  be  married.  I  for 
got.  And  you  must  tell  me  why." 

The  man  raised  his  head  and  looked  her  in  the 
eyes.  It  was  a  way  he  had  with  whomever  he 
talked,  of  looking  them  in  the  eyes. 

"I  have  considered  you,  Lute/'  he  began  doggedly. 
"I  did  consider  you  at  the  very  first.  I  should 
never  have  gone  on  with  it.  I  should  have  gone 
away.  I  knew  it.  And  I  considered  you  in  the 
light  of  that  knowledge,  and  yet  ...  I  did  not  go 
away.  My  God  !  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  loved  you. 
I  could  not  go  away.  I  could  not  help  it.  I  stayed. 
I  resolved,  but  I  broke  my  resolves.  I  was  like  a 
drunkard.  I  was  drunk  of  you.  I  was  weak,  I 


PLANCHETTE  201 

know.  I  failed.  I  could  not  go  away.  I  tried. 
I  went  away  —  you  will  remember,  though  you  did 
not  know  why.  You  know  now.  I  went  away,  but 
I  could  not  remain  away.  Knowing  that  we  could 
never  marry,  I  came  back  to  you.  I  am  here,  now, 
with  you.  Send  me  away,  Lute.  I  have  not  the 
strength  to  go  myself." 

"But  why  should  you  go  away?"  she  asked. 
"Besides,  I  must  know  why,  before  I  can  send  you 
away." 

"Don't  ask  me." 

"Tell  me,"  she  said,  her  voice  tenderly  im 
perative. 

"Don't,  Lute;  don't  force  me,"  the  man  pleaded, 
and  there  was  appeal  in  his  eyes  and  voice. 

"But  you  must  tell  me,"  she  insisted.  "It  is 
justice  you  owe  me." 

The  man  wavered.  "If  I  do  .  .  ."  he  began. 
Then  he  ended  with  determination,  "I  should  never 
be  able  to  forgive  myself.  No,  -I  cannot  tell  you. 
Don't  try  to  compel  me,  Lute.  You  would  be  as 
sorry  as  I." 

"If  there  is  anything  ...  if  there  are  obstacles 
...  if  this  mystery  does  really  prevent  ..."  She 


202  PLANCHETTE 

was  speaking  slowly,  with  long  pauses,  seeking 
the  more  delicate  ways  of  speech  for  the  framing 
of  her  thought.  "Chris,  I  do  love  you.  I  love 
you  as  deeply  as  it  is  possible  for  any  woman  to 
love,  I  am  sure.  If  you  were  to  say  to  me  now 
'Come,'  I  would  go  with  you.  I  would  follow 
wherever  you  led.  I  would  be  your  page,  as  in 
the  days  of  old  when  ladies  went  with  their  knights 
to  far  lands.  You  are  my  knight,  Chris,  and  you 
can  do  no  wrong.  Your  will  is  my  wish.  I  was 
once  afraid  of  the  censure  of  the  world.  Now 
that  you  have  come  into  my  life  I  am  no  longer 
afraid.  I  would  laugh  at  the  world  and  its  censure 
for  your  sake  —  for  my  sake  too.  I  would  laugh, 
for  I  should  have  you,  and  you  are  more  to  me  than 
the  good  will  and  approval  of  the  world.  If  you 
say  'Come,'  I  will  — " 

"Don't!  Don't!"  he  cried.  "It  is  impossible! 
Marriage  or  not,  I  cannot  even  say  'Come.'  I  dare 
not.  I'll  show  you.  I'll  tell  you." 

He  sat  up  beside  her,  the  action  stamped  with 
resolve.  He  took  her  hand  in  his  and  held  it  closely. 
His  lips  moved  to  the  verge  of  speech.  The  mys 
tery  trembled  for  utterance.  The  air  was  palpitant 


PLANCHETTE  203 

with  its  presence.  As  if  it  were  an  irrevocable 
decree,  the  girl  steeled  herself  to  hear.  But  the 
man  paused,  gazing  straight  out  before  him.  She 
felt  his  hand  relax  in  hers,  and  she  pressed  it 
sympathetically,  encouragingly.  But  she  felt  the 
rigidity  going  out  of  his  tensed  body,  and  she  knew 
that  spirit  and  flesh  were  relaxing  together.  His 
resolution  was  ebbing.  He  would  not  speak  —  she 
knew  it;  and  she  knew,  likewise,  with  the  sureness 
of  faith,  that  it  was  because  he  could  not. 

She  gazed  despairingly  before  her,  a  numb  feeling 
at  her  heart,  as  though  hope  and  happiness  had 
died.  She  watched  the  sun  flickering  down  through 
the  warm-trunked  redwoods.  But  she  watched  in  a 
mechanical,  absent  way.  She  looked  at  the  scene  as 
from  a  long  way  off,  without  interest,  herself  an 
alien,  no  longer  an  intimate  part  of  the  earth  and 
trees  and  flowers  she  loved  so  well. 

So  far  removed  did  she  seem,  that  she  was  aware 
of  a  curiosity,  strangely  impersonal,  in  what  lay 
around  her.  Through  a  near  vista  she  looked  at  a 
buckeye  tree  in  full  blossom  as  though  her  eyes 
encountered  it  for  the  first  time.  Her  eyes  paused 
and  dwelt  upon  a  yellow  cluster  of  Diogenes'  Ian- 


204  PLANCHETTE 

terns  that  grew  on  the  edge  of  an  open  space.  It  was 
the  way  of  flowers  always  to  give  her  quick  pleasure- 
thrills,  but  no  thrill  was  hers  now.  She  pondered 
the  flower  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  as  a  hasheesh- 
eater,  heavy  with  the  drug,  might  ponder  some 
whim-flower  that  obtruded  on  his  vision.  In  her 
ears  was  the  voice  of  the  stream  —  a  hoarse-throated, 
sleepy  old  giant,  muttering  and  mumbling  his  som 
nolent  fancies.  But  her  fancy  was  not  in  turn 
aroused,  as  was  its  wont;  she  knew  the  sound  merely 
for  water  rushing  over  the  rocks  of  the  deep  canyon- 
bottom,  that  and  nothing  more. 

Her  gaze  wandered  on  beyond  the  Diogenes' 
lanterns  into  the  open  space.  Knee-deep  in  the 
wild  oats  of  the  hillside  grazed  two  horses,  chestnut- 
sorrels  the  pair  of  them,  perfectly  matched,  warm 
and  golden  in  the  sunshine,  their  spring-coats  a 
sheen  of  high-lights  shot  through  with  color-flashes 
that  glowed  like  fiery  jewels.  She  recognized, 
almost  with  a  shock,  that  one  of  them  was  hers, 
Dolly,  the  companion  of  her  girlhood  and  woman 
hood,  on  whose  neck  she  had  sobbed  her  sorrows 
and  sung  her  joys.  A  moistness  welled  into  her 
eyes  at  the  sight,  and  she  came  back  from  the 


PLANCHETTE  205 

remoteness  of  her  mood,  quick  with  passion  and 
sorrow,  to  be  part  of  the  world  again. 

The  man  sank  forward  from  the  hips,  relaxing 
entirely,  and  with  a  groan  dropped  his  head  on  her 
knee.  She  leaned  over  him  and  pressed  her  lips 
softly  and  lingeringly  to  his  hair. 

"  Come,  let  us  go,"  she  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

She  caught  her  breath  in  a  half-sob,  then  tightened 
her  lips  as  she  rose.  His  face  was  white  to  ghastli- 
ness,  so  shaken  was  he  by  the  struggle  through 
which  he  had  passed.  They  did  not  look  at  each 
other,  but  walked  directly  to  the  horses.  She 
leaned  against  Dolly's  neck  while  he  tightened  the 
girths.  Then  she  gathered  the  reins  in  her  hand 
and  waited.  He  looked  at  her  as  he  bent  down,  an 
appeal  for  forgiveness  in  his  eyes;  and  in  that 
moment  her  own  eyes  answered.  Her  foot  rested 
in  his  hands,  and  from  there  she  vaulted  into  the 
saddle.  Without  speaking,  without  further  looking 
at  each  other,  they  turned  the  horses'  heads  and 
took  the  narrow  trail  that  wound  down  through  the 
sombre  redwood  aisles  and  across  the  open  glades 
to  the  pasture-lands  below.  The  trail  became  a 


206  PLANCHETTE 

cow-path,  the  cow-path  became  a  wood-road,  which 
later  joined  with  a  hay-road;  and  they  rode  down 
through  the  low-rolling,  tawny  California  hills  to 
where  a  set  of  bars  let  out  on  the  county  road  which 
ran  along  the  bottom  of  the  valley.  The  girl  sat 
her  horse  while  the  man  dismounted  and  began 
taking  down  the  bars. 

"No  —  wait!"  she  cried,  before  he  had  touched 
the  two  lower  bars. 

She  urged  the  mare  forward  a  couple  of  strides, 
and  then  the  animal  lifted  over  the  bars  in  a  clean 
little  jump.  The  man's  eyes  sparkled,  and  he 
clapped  his  hands. 

"You  beauty!  you  beauty!"  the  girl  cried,  lean 
ing  forward  impulsively  in  the  saddle  and  pressing 
her  cheek  to  the  mare's  neck  where  it  burned  flame- 
color  in  the  sun. 

"Let's  trade  horses  for  the  ride  in,"  she  suggested, 
when  he  had  led  his  horse  through  and  finished 
putting  up  the  bars.  "You've  never  sufficiently 
appreciated  Dolly." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested. 

"You  think  she  is  too  old,  too  sedate,"  Lute 
insisted,  "She's  only  sixteen,  and  she  can  outrun 


PLANCHETTE  207 

nine  colts  out  of  ten.  Only  she  never  cuts  up. 
She's  too  steady,  and  you  don't  approve  of  her  — 
no,  don't  deny  it,  sir.  I  know.  And  I  know  also 
that  she  can  outrun  your  vaunted  Washoe  Ban. 
There !  I  challenge  you !  And  furthermore,  you 
may  ride  her  yourself.  You  know  what  Ban  can 
do;  so  you  must  ride  Dolly  and  see  for  yourself 
what  she  can  do." 

They  proceeded  to  exchange  the  saddles  on  the 
horses,  glad  of  the  diversion  and  making  the  most 
of  it. 

"I'm  glad  I  was  born  in  California,"  Lute  re 
marked,  as  she  swung  astride  of  Ban.  "It's  an 
outrage  both  to  horse  and  woman  to  ride  in  a  side 
saddle." 

"You  look  like  a  young  Amazon,"  the  man  said 
approvingly,  his  eyes  passing  tenderly  over  the  girl 
as  she  swung  the  horse  around. 

"Are  you  ready  ?"   she  asked. 

"All  ready!" 

"To  the  old  mill,"  she  called,  as  the  horses  sprang 
forward.  "That's  less  than  a  mile." 

"To  a  finish  ?"   he  demanded. 

She  nodded,  and  the  horses,  feeling  the  urge  of 


208  PLANCHETTE 

the  reins,  caught  the  spirit  of  the  race.  The  dust 
rose  in  clouds  behind  as  they  tore  along  the  level 
road.  They  swung  around  the  bend,  horses  and 
riders  tilted  at  sharp  angles  to  the  ground,  and  more 
than  once  the  riders  ducked  low  to  escape  the 
branches  of  outreaching  and  overhanging  trees. 
They  clattered  over  the  small  plank  bridges,  and 
thundered  over  the  larger  iron  ones  to  an  ominous 
clanking  of  loose  rods. 

They  rode  side  by  side,  saving  the  animals  for 
the  rush  at  the  finish,  yet  putting  them  at  a  pace 
that  drew  upon  vitality  and  staying  power.  Curving 
around  a  clump  of  white  oaks,  the  road  straightened 
out  before  them  for  several  hundred  yards,  at  the 
end  of  which  they  could  see  the  ruined  mill. 

"Now  for  it!"    the  girl  cried. 

She  urged  the  horse  by  suddenly  leaning  forward 
with  her  body,  at  the  same  time,  for  an  instant, 
letting  the  rein  slack  and  touching  the  neck  with 
her  bridle  hand.  She  began  to  draw  away  from 
the  man. 

"Touch  her  on  the  neck!"   she  cried  to  him. 

With  this,  the  mare  pulled  alongside  and  began 
gradually  to  pass  the  girl.  Chris  and  Lute  looked  at 


PLANCHETTE  209 

each  other  for  a  moment,  the  mare  still  drawing 
ahead,  so  that  Chris  was  compelled  slowly  to  turn 
his  head.  The  mill  was  a  hundred  yards  away. 

"Shall  I  give  him  the  spurs  ?"    Lute  shouted. 

The  man  nodded,  and  the  girl  drove  the  spurs 
in  sharply  and  quickly,  calling  upon  the  horse  for 
its  utmost,  but  watched  her  own  horse  forge  slowly 
ahead  of  her. 

"Beaten  by  three  lengths!"  Lute  beamed 
triumphantly,  as  they  pulled  into  a  walk.  "Confess, 
sir,  confess !  You  didn't  think  the  old  mare  had  it 
in  her." 

Lute  leaned  to  the  side  and  rested  her  hand  for  a 
moment  on  Dolly's  wet  neck. 

"Ban's  a  sluggard  alongside  of  her,"  Chris 
affirmed.  "Dolly's  all  right,  if  she  is  in  her  Indian 
Summer." 

Lute  nodded  approval.  'That's  a  sweet  way  of 
putting  it  —  Indian  Summer.  It  just  describes  her. 
But  she's  not  lazy.  She  has  all  the  fire  and  none 
of  the  folly.  She  is  very  wise,  what  of  her  years." 

"That  accounts  for  it,"  Chris  demurred.  "Her 
folly  passed  with  her  youth.  Many's  the  lively 
time  she's  given  you." 


2io  PLANCHETTE 

"No,"  Lute  answered.  "I  never  knew  her  really 
to  cut  up.  I  think  the  only  trouble  she  ever  gave 
me  was  when  I  was  training  her  to  open  gates. 
She  was  afraid  when  they  swung  back  upon  her  — 
the  animal's  fear  of  the  trap,  perhaps.  But  she 
bravely  got  over  it.  And  she  never  was  vicious. 
She  never  bolted,  nor  bucked,  nor  cut  up  in  all  her 
life  —  never,  not  once." 

The  horses  went  on  at  a  walk,  still  breathing 
heavily  from  their  run.  The  road  wound  along 
the  bottom  of  the  valley,  now  and  again  crossing 
the  stream.  From  either  side  rose  the  drowsy  purr 
of  mowing-machines,  punctuated  by  occasional 
sharp  cries  of  the  men  who  were  gathering  the  hay- 
crop.  On  the  western  side  of  the  valley  the  hills 
rose  green  and  dark,  but  the  eastern  side  was  already 
burned  brown  and  tan  by  the  sun. 

"There  is  summer,  here  is  spring,"  Lute  said. 
"Oh,  beautiful  Sonoma  Valley!" 

Her  eyes  were  glistening  and  her  face  was  radiant 
with  love  of  the  land.  Her  gaze  wandered  on  across 
orchard  patches  and  sweeping  vineyard  stretches, 
seeking  out  the  purple  which  seemed  to  hang  like 
a  dim  smoke  in  the  wrinkles  of  the  hills  and  in  the 


PLANCHETTE  211 

more  distant  canyon  gorges.  Far  up,  among  the 
more  rugged  crests,  where  the  steep  slopes  were 
covered  with  manzanita,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a 'clear  space  where  the  wild  grass  had  not  yet  lost 
its  green. 

"Have  you  ever  heard  of  the  secret  pasture?" 
she  asked,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  the  remote  green. 

A  snort  of  fear  brought  her  eyes  back  to  the  man 
beside  her.  Dolly,  upreared,  with  distended  nostrils 
and  wild  eyes,  was  pawing  the  air  madly  with  her 
fore  legs.  Chris  threw  himself  forward  against  her 
neck  to  keep  her  from  falling  backward,  and  at  the 
same  time  touched  her  with  the  spurs  to  compel 
her  to  drop  her  fore  feet  to  the  ground  in  order  to 
obey  the  go-ahead  impulse  of  the  spurs. 

"Why,  Dolly,  this  is  most  remarkable,"  Lute 
began  reprovingly. 

But,  to  her  surprise,  the  mare  threw  her  head  down, 
arched  her  back  as  she  went  up  in  the  air,  and,  re 
turning,  struck  the  ground  stiff-legged  and  bunched. 

"A  genuine  buck!"  Chris  called  out,  and  the 
next  moment  the  mare  was  rising  under  him  in  a 
second  buck. 

Lute  looked  on,  astounded  at  the  unprecedented 


212  PLANCHETTE 

conduct  of  her  mare,  and  admiring  her  lover's  horse 
manship.  He  was  quite  cool,  and  was  himself 
evidently  enjoying  the  performance.  Again  and 
again,  half  a  dozen  times,  Dolly  arched  herself  into 
the  air  and  struck,  stiffly  bunched.  Then  she  threw 
her  head  straight  up  and  rose  on  her  hind  legs, 
pivoting  about  and  striking  with  her  fore  feet. 
Lute  whirled  into  safety  the  horse  she  was  riding, 
and  as  she  did  so  caught  a  glimpse  of  Dolly's  eyes, 
with  the  look  in  them  of  blind  brute  madness, 
bulging  until  it  seemed  they  must  burst  from  her 
head.  The  faint  pink  in  the  white  of  the  eyes  was 
gone,  replaced  by  a  white  that  was  like  dull  marble 
and  that  yet  flashed  as  from  some  inner  fire. 

A  faint  cry  of  fear,  suppressed  in  the  instant  of 
utterance,  slipped  past  Lute's  lips.  One  hind  leg 
of  the  mare  seemed  to  collapse,  and  for  a  moment 
the  whole  quivering  body,  upreared  and  perpen 
dicular,  swayed  back  and  forth,  and  there  was 
uncertainty  as  to  whether  it  would  fall  forward  or 
backward.  The  man,  half-slipping  sidewise  from 
the  saddle,  so  as  to  fall  clear  if  the  mare  toppled 
backward,  threw  his  weight  to  the  front  and  along 
side  her  neck.  This  overcame  the  dangerous  teeter- 


PLANCHETTE  213 

ing  balance,  and  the  mare  struck  the  ground  on  her 
feet  again. 

But  there  was  no  let-up.  Dolly  straightened  out 
so  that  the  line  of  the  face  was  almost  a  continuation 
of  the  line  of  the  stretched  neck ;  this  position  enabled 
her  to  master  the  bit,  which  she  did  by  bolting 
straight  ahead  down  the  road. 

For  the  first  time  Lute  became  really  frightened. 
She  spurred  Washoe  Ban  in  pursuit,  but  he  could 
not  hold  his  own  with  the  mad  mare,  and  dropped 
gradually  behind.  Lute  saw  Dolly  check  and  rear 
in  the  air  again,  and  caught  up  just  as  the  mare 
made  a  second  bolt.  As  Dolly  dashed  around  a 
bend,  she  stopped  suddenly,  stiff-legged.  Lute  saw 
her  lover  torn  out  of  the  saddle,  his  thigh-grip  broken 
by  the  sudden  jerk.  Though  he  had  lost  his  seat, 
he  had  not  been  thrown,  and  as  the  mare  dashed 
on  Lute  saw  him  clinging  to  the  side  of  the  horse, 
a  hand  in  the  mane  and  a  leg  across  the  saddle. 
With  a  quick  effort  he  regained  his  seat  and  pro 
ceeded  to  fight  with  the  mare  for  control. 

But  Dolly  swerved  from  the  road  and  dashed 
down  a  grassy  slope  yellowed  with  innumerable 
mariposa  lilies.  An  ancient  fence  at  the  bottom 


214  PLANCHETTE 

was  no  obstacle.  She  burst  through  as  though  it 
were  filmy  spider-web  and  disappeared  in  the  under 
brush.  Lute  followed  unhesitatingly,  putting  Ban 
through  the  gap  in  the  fence  and  plunging  on  into 
the  thicket.  She  lay  along  his  neck,  closely,  to 
escape  the  ripping  and  tearing  of  the  trees  and  vines. 
She  felt  the  horse  drop  down  through  leafy  branches 
and  into  the  cool  gravel  of  a  stream's  bottom.  From 
ahead  came  a  splashing  of  water,  and  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Dolly,  dashing  up  the  small  bank  and  into 
a  clump  of  scrub-oaks,  against  the  trunks  of  which 
she  was  trying  to  scrape  off  her  rider. 

Lute  almost  caught  up  amongst  the  trees,  but 
was  hopelessly  outdistanced  on  the  fallow  field 
adjoining,  across  which  the  mare  tore  with  a  fine 
disregard  for  heavy  ground  and  gopher-holes. 
When  she  turned  at  a  sharp  angle  into  the  thicket- 
land  beyond,  Lute  took  the  long  diagonal,  skirted 
the  thicket,  and  reined  in  Ban  at  the  other  side. 
She  had  arrived  first.  From  within  the  thicket  she 
could  hear  a  tremendous  crashing  of  brush  and 
branches.  Then  the  mare  burst  through  and  into 
the  open,  falling  to  her  knees,  exhausted,  on  the 
soft  earth.  She  arose  and  staggered  forward,  then 


PLANCHETTE  215 

came  limply  to  a  halt.  She  was  in  a  lather-sweat 
of  fear,  and  stood  trembling  pitiably. 

Chris  was  still  on  her  back.  His  shirt  was  in 
ribbons.  The  backs  of  his  hands  were  bruised  and 
lacerated,  while  his  face  was  streaming  blood  from 
a  gash  near  the  temple.  Lute  had  controlled  her 
self  well,  but  now  she  was  aware  of  a  quick  nausea 
and  a  trembling  of  weakness. 

"Chris!"  she  said,  so  softly  that  it  was  almost  a 
whisper.  Then  she  sighed,  "Thank  God." 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right,"  he  cried  to  her,  putting  into 
his  voice  all  the  heartiness  he  could  command, 
which  was  not  much,  for  he  had  himself  been  under 
no  mean  nervous  strain. 

He  showed  the  reaction  he  was  undergoing,  when 
he  swung  down  out  of  the  saddle.  He  began  with 
a  brave  muscular  display  as  he  lifted  his  leg  over, 
but  ended,  on  his  feet,  leaning  against  the  limp 
Dolly  for  support.  Lute  flashed  out  of  her  saddle, 
and  her  arms  were  about  him  in  an  embrace  of 
thankfulness. 

"I  know  where  there  is  a  spring,"  she  said,  a 
moment  later. 

They  left  the  horses  standing  untethered,  and  she 


2i6  PLANCHETTE 

led  her  lover  into  the  cool  recesses  of  the  thicket  to 
where  crystal  water  bubbled  from  out  the  base  of 
the  mountain. 

"What  was  that  you  said  about  Dolly's  never 
cutting  up  ? "  he  asked,  when  the  blood  had 
been  stanched  and  his  nerves  and  pulse-beats  were 
normal  again. 

"I  am  stunned/'  Lute  answered.  "I  cannot 
understand  it.  She  never  did  anything  like  it  in 
all  her  life.  And  all  animals  like  you  so  —  it's  not 
because  of  that.  Why,  she  is  a  child's  horse.  I 
was  only  a  little  girl  when  I  first  rode  her,  and  to 
this  day — " 

"Well,  this  day  she  was  everything  but  a  child's 
horse,"  Chris  broke  in.  "She  was  a  devil.  She 
tried  to  scrape  me  off  against  the  trees,  and  to  batter 
my  brains  out  against  the  limbs.  She  tried  all  the 
lowest  and  narrowest  places  she  could  find.  You 
should  have  seen  her  squeeze  through.  And  did 
you  see  those  bucks?" 

Lute  nodded. 

"Regular  bucking-bronco  proposition." 

"But  what  should  she  know  about  bucking?" 
Lute  demanded.  "She  was  never  known  to  buck 


—  never." 


PLANCHETTE  217 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Some  forgotten 
instinct,  perhaps,  long-lapsed  and  come  to  life 
again." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  determinedly.  "I'm 
going  to  find  out,"  she  said. 

They  went  back  to  the  horses,  where  they  sub 
jected  Dolly  to  a  rigid  examination  that  disclosed 
nothing.  Hoofs,  legs,  bit,  mouth,  body  —  every 
thing  was  as  it  should  be.  The  saddle  and  saddle 
cloth  were  innocent  of  bur  or  sticker;  the  back  was 
smooth  and  unbroken.  They  searched  for  sign  of 
snake-bite  and  sting  of  fly  or  insect,  but  found 
nothing. 

"Whatever  it  was,  it  was  subjective,  that  much 
is  certain,"  Chris  said. 

"Obsession,"  Lute  suggested. 

They  laughed  together  at  the  idea,  for  both  were 
twentieth-century  products,  healthy-minded  and 
normal,  with  souls  that  delighted  in  the  butterfly- 
chase  of  ideals  but  that  halted  before  the  brink 
where  superstition  begins. 

"An  evil  spirit,"  Chris  laughed;  "but  what  evil 
have  I  done  that  I  should  be  so  punished?" 

"You  think  too  much  of  yourself,  sir,"  she  re- 


2i8  PLANCHETTE 

joined.  "It  is  more  likely  some  evil,  I  don't  know 
what,  that  Dolly  has  done.  You  were  a  mere  acci 
dent.  I  might  have  been  on  her  back  at  the  time, 
or  Aunt  Mildred,  or  anybody." 

As  she  talked,  she  took  hold  of  the  stirrup-strap 
and  started  to  shorten  it. 

"What  are  you  doing  ?"   Chris  demanded. 

"I'm  going  to  ride  Dolly  in." 

"No,  you're  not,"  he  announced.  "It  would  be 
bad  discipline.  After  what  has  happened  I  am 
simply  compelled  to  ride  her  in  myself." 

But  it  was  a  very  weak  and  very  sick  mare  he 
rode,  stumbling  and  halting,  afflicted  with  nervous 
jerks  and  recurring  muscular  spasms  —  the  after 
math  of  the  tremendous  orgasm  through  which  she 
had  passed. 

"I  feel  like  a  book  of  verse  and  a  hammock,  after 
all  that  has  happened,"  Lute  said,  as  they  rode 
into  camp. 

It  was  a  summer  camp  of  city-tired  people,  pitched 
in  a  grove  of  towering  redwoods  through  whose 
lofty  boughs  the  sunshine  trickled  down,  broken 
and  subdued  to  soft  light  and  cool  shadow.  Apart 
from  the  main  camp  were  the  kitchen  and  the 


PLANCHETTE  219 

servants'  tents;  and  midway  between  was  the 
great  dining  hall,  walled  by  the  living  redwood 
columns,  where  fresh  whispers  of  air  were  always 
to  be  found,  and  where  no  canopy  was  needed  to 
keep  the  sun  away. 

"Poor  Dolly,  she  is  really  sick,"  Lute  said  that 
evening,  when  they  had  returned  from  a  last  look 
at  the  mare.  "But  you  weren't  hurt,  Chris,  and 
that's  enough  for  one  small  woman  to  be  thankful 
for.  I  thought  I  knew,  but  I  really  did  not  know 
till  to-day,  how  much  you  meant  to  me.  I  could 
hear  only  the  plunging  and  struggle  in  the  thicket. 
I  could  not  see  you,  nor  know  how  it  went  with 
you." 

"My  thoughts  were  of  you,"  Chris  answered,  and 
felt  the  responsive  pressure  of  the  hand  that  rested 
on  his  arm. 

She  turned  her  face  up  to  his  and  met  his  lips. 

"Good  night,"  she  said. 

"Dear  Lute,  dear  Lute,"  he  caressed  her  with 
his  voice  as  she  moved  away  among  the  shadows. 

******* 

"Who's  going  for  the  mail?"  called  a  woman's 
voice  through  the  trees. 


220  PLANCHETTE 

Lute  closed  the  book  from  which  they  had  been 
reading,  and  sighed. 

"We  weren't  going  to  ride  to-day,"  she  said. 

"Let  me  go,"  Chris  proposed.  "You  stay  here. 
I'll  be  down  and  back  in  no  time." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Who's  going  for  the  mail?"  the  voice  in 
sisted. 

"Where's  Martin  ?"  Lute  called,  lifting  her  voice 
in  answer. 

"I  don't  know,"  came  the  voice.  "I  think 
Robert  took  him  along  somewhere  —  horse-buying, 
or  fishing,  or  I  don't  know  what.  There's  really 
nobody  left  but  Chris  and  you.  Besides,  it  will  give 
you  an  appetite  for  dinner.  You've  been  lounging 
in  the  hammock  all  day.  And  Uncle  Robert  must 
have  his  newspaper." 

"All  right,  Aunty,  we're  starting,"  Lute  called 
back,  getting  out  of  the  hammock. 

A  few  minutes  later,  in  riding-clothes,  they  were 
saddling  the  horses.  They  rode  out  on  to  the 
county  road,  where  blazed  the  afternoon  sun,  and 
turned  toward  Glen  Ellen.  The  little  town  slept  in 
the  sun,  and  the  somnolent  storekeeper  and  post- 


PLANCHETTE  221 

master  scarcely  kept  his  eyes  open  long  enough  to 
make  up  the  packet  of  letters  and  newspapers. 

An  hour  later  Lute  and  Chris  turned  aside  from 
the  road  and  dipped  along  a  cow-path  down  the 
high  bank  to  water  the  horses,  before  going  into 
camp. 

"Dolly  looks  as  though  she'd  forgotten  all  about 
yesterday,"  Chris  said,  as  they  sat  their  horses 
knee-deep  in  the  rushing  water.  "Look  at  her." 

The  mare  had  raised  her  head  and  cocked  her 
ears  at  the  rustling  of  a  quail  in  the  thicket.  Chris 
leaned  over  and  rubbed  around  her  ears.  Dolly's 
enjoyment  was  evident,  and  she  drooped  her  head 
over  against  the  shoulder  of  his  own  horse. 

"Like  a  kitten,"  was  Lute's  comment. 

"Yet  I  shall  never  be  able  wholly  to  trust  her 
again,"  Chris  said.  "Not  after  yesterday's  mad 
freak." 

"I  have  a  feeling  myself  that  you  are  safer  on 
Ban,"  Lute  laughed.  "It  is  strange.  My  trust  in 
Dolly  is  as  implicit  as  ever.  I  feel  confident  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  but  I  should  never  care  to  see 
you  on  her  back  again.  Now  with  Ban,  my  faith 
is  still  unshaken.  Look  at  that  neck !  Isn't  he 


222  PLANCHETTE 

handsome !  He'll  be  as  wise  as  Dolly  when  he  is 
as  old  as  she." 

"I  feel  the  same  way,"  Chris  laughed  back. 
"Ban  could  never  possibly  betray  me." 

They  turned  their  horses  out  of  the  stream. 
Dolly  stopped  to  brush  a  fly  from  her  knee  with 
her  nose,  and  Ban  urged  past  into  the  narrow  way 
of  the  path.  The  space  was  too  restricted  to  make 
him  return,  save  with  much  trouble,  and  Chris 
allowed  him  to  go  on.  Lute,  riding  behind,  dwelt 
with  her  eyes  upon  her  lover's  back,  pleasuring  in 
the  lines  of  the  bare  neck  and  the  sweep  out  to  the 
muscular  shoulders. 

Suddenly  she  reined  in  her  horse.  She  could 
do  nothing  but  look,  so  brief  was  the  duration 
of  the  happening.  Beneath  and  above  was  the 
almost  perpendicular  bank.  The  path  itself  was 
barely  wide  enough  for  footing.  Yet  Washoe  Ban, 
whirling  and  rearing  at  the  same  time,  toppled  for 
a  moment  in  the  air  and  fell  backward  off  the 
path. 

So  unexpected  and  so  quick  was  it,  that  the  man 
was  involved  in  the  fall.  There  had  been  no  time 
for  him  to  throw  himself  to  the  path.  He  was 


PLANCHETTE  223 

falling  ere  he  knew  it,  and  he  did  the  only  thing 
possible  —  slipped  the  stirrups  and  threw  his  body 
into  the  air,  to  the  side,  and  at  the  same  time  down. 
It  was  twelve  feet  to  the  rocks  below.  He  main 
tained  an  upright  position,  his  head  up  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  horse  above  him  and  falling  upon 
him. 

Chris  struck  like  a  cat,  on  his  feet,  on  the  instant 
making  a  leap  to  the  side.  The  next  instant  Ban 
crashed  down  beside  him.  The  animal  struggled 
little,  but  sounded  the  terrible  cry  that  horses  some 
times  sound  when  they  have  received  mortal  hurt. 
He  had  struck  almost  squarely  on  his  back,  and  in 
that  position  he  remained,  his  head  twisted  partly 
under,  his  hind  legs  relaxed  and  motionless,  his  fore 
legs  futilely  striking  the  air. 

Chris  looked  up  reassuringly. 

"I  am  getting  used  to  it,"  Lute  smiled  down  to 
him.  "Of  course  I  need  not  ask  if  you  are  hurt. 
Can  I  do  anything?" 

He  smiled  back  and  went  over  to  the  fallen  beast, 
letting  go  the  girths  of  the  saddle  and  getting  the 
head  straightened  out. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said,  after  a  cursory  examina- 


224  PLANCHETTE 

tion.  "I  thought  so  at  the  time.  Did  you  hear 
that  sort  of  crunching  snap  ?" 

She  shuddered. 

"Well,  that  was  the  punctuation  of  life,  the  final 
period  dropped  at  the  end  of  Ban's  usefulness." 
He  started  around  to  come  up  by  the  path.  "I've 
been  astride  of  Ban  for  the  last  time.  Let  us  go 
home." 

At  the  top  of  the  bank  Chris  turned  and  looked 
down. 

"Good-by,  Washoe  Ban!"  he  called  out. 
"Good-by,  old  fellow." 

The  animal  was  struggling  to  lift  its  head.  There 
were  tears  in  Chris's  eyes  as  he  turned  abruptly 
away,  and  tears  in  Lute's  eyes  as  they  met  his. 
She  was  siLmt  in  her  sympathy,  though  the  pressure 
of  her  hand  was  firm  in  his  as  he  walked  beside  her 
horse  down  the  dusty  road. 

"It  was  done  deliberately,"  Chris  burst  forth 
suddenly.  "There  was  no  warning.  He  deliber 
ately  flung  himself  over  backward." 

"There  was  no  warning,"  Lute  concurred.  "I 
was  looking.  I  saw  him.  He  whirled  and  threw 
himself  at  the  same  time,  just  as  if  you  had  done  it 


PLANCHETTE  225 

yourself,  with  a  tremendous  jerk  and  backward  pull 
on  the  bit." 

"It  was  not  my  hand,  I  swear  it.  I  was  not  even 
thinking  of  him.  He  was  going  up  with  a  fairly 
loose  rein,  as  a  matter  of  course." 

"I  should  have  seen  it,  had  you  done  it,"  Lute 
said.  "But  it  was  all  done  before  you  had  a  chance 
to  do  anything.  It  was  not  your  hand,  not  even 
your  unconscious  hand." 

"Then  it  was  some  invisible  hand,  reaching  out 
from  I  don't  know  where." 

He  looked  up  whimsically  at  the  sky  and  smiled 
at  the  conceit. 

Martin  stepped  forward  to  receive  Dolly,  when 
they  came  into  the  stable  end  of  the  grove,  but  his 
face  expressed  no  surprise  at  sight  of  Chris  coming 
in  on  foot.  Chris  lingered  behind  Lute  for  a 
moment. 

"Can  you  shoot  a  horse?"    he  asked. 

The  groom  nodded,  then  added,  "Yes,  sir,"  with 
a  second  and  deeper  nod. 

"How  do  you  do  it?" 

"  Draw  a  line  from  the  eyes  to  the  ears  —  I  mean 
the  opposite  ears,  sir.     And  where  the  lines  cross  — 
Q 


226  PLANCHETTE 

"That  will  do,"  Chris  interrupted.  "You  know 

the  watering  place  at  the  second  bend.  You'll  find 
Ban  there  with  a  broken  back." 

#             *            *             *            *  *            * 

"Oh,  here  you  are,  sir.  I  have  been  looking  for 
you  everywhere  since  dinner.  You  are  wanted 
immediately." 

Chris  tossed  his  cigar  away,  then  went  over  and 
pressed  his  foot  on  its  glowing  fire. 

"You  haven't  told  anybody  about  it?  —  Ban?" 
he  queried. 

Lute  shook  her  head.  "They'll  learn  soon  enough. 
Martin  will  mention  it  to  Uncle  Robert  to-morrow." 

"But  don't  feel  too  bad  about  it,"  she  said,  after 
a  moment's  pause,  slipping  her  hand  into  his. 

"He  was  my  colt,"  he  said.  "Nobody  has  ridden 
him  but  you.  I  broke  him  myself.  I  knew  him 
from  the  time  he  was  born.  I  knew  every  bit  of 
him,  every  trick,  every  caper,  and  I  would  have 
staked  my  life  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  do 
a  thing  like  this.  There  was  no  warning,  no  fight 
ing  for  the  bit,  no  previous  unruliness.  I  have  been 
thinking  it  over.  He  didn't  fight  for  the  bit,  for  that 
matter.  He  wasn't  unruly,  nor  disobedient.  There 


PLANCHETTE  227 

wasn't  time.  It  was  an  impulse,  and  he  acted 
upon  it  like  lightning.  I  am  astounded  now  at 
the  swiftness  with  which  it  took  place.  Inside  the 
first  second  we  were  over  the  edge  and  falling. 

"  It  was  deliberate  —  deliberate  suicide.  And  at 
tempted  murder.  It  was  a  trap.  I  was  the  victim. 
He  had  me,  and  he  threw  himself  over  with  me. 
Yet  he  did  not  hate  me.  He  loved  me  ...  as 
much  as  it  is  possible  for  a  horse  to  love.  I  am 
confounded.  I  cannot  understand  it  any  more  than 
you  can  understand  Dolly's  behavior  yesterday." 

"But  horses  go  insane,  Chris,"  Lute  said.  "You 
know  that.  It's  merely  coincidence  that  two 
horses  in  two  days  should  have  spells  under  you." 

"That's  the  only  explanation,"  he  answered, 
starting  off  with  her.  "But  why  am  I  wanted 
urgently  ?" 

"Planchette." 

"Oh,  I  remember.  It  will  be  a  new  experience 
to  me.  Somehow  I  missed  it  when  it  was  all  the 
rage  long  ago." 

"So  did  all  of  us,"  Lute  replied,  "except  Mrs. 
Grantly.  It  is  her  favorite  phantom,  it  seems." 

"A  weird  little  thing,"   he  remarked.     "Bundle 


228  PLANCHETTE 

of  nerves  and  black  eyes.  I'll  wager  she  doesn't 
weigh  ninety  pounds,  and  most  of  that's  magnetism." 

"Positively  uncanny  ...  at  times."  Lute  shiv 
ered  involuntarily.  "She  gives  me  the  creeps." 

"Contact  of  the  healthy  with  the  morbid,"  he 
explained  dryly.  "You  will  notice  it  is  the  healthy 
that  always  has  the  creeps.  The  morbid  never  has 
the  creeps.  It  gives  the  creeps.  That's  its  function. 
Where  did  you  people  pick  her  up,  anyway  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  —  yes,  I  do,  too.  Aunt  Mildred 
met  her  in  Boston,  I  think  —  oh,  I  don't  know. 
At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Grantly  came  to  California,  and 
of  course  had  to  visit  Aunt  Mildred.  You  know 
the  open  house  we  keep." 

They  halted  where  a  passageway  between  two 
great  redwood  trunks  gave  entrance  to  the  dining 
room.  Above,  through  lacing  boughs,  could  be 
seen  the  stars.  Candles  lighted  the  tree-columned 
space.  About  the  table,  examining  the  Planchette 
contrivance,  were  four  persons.  Chris's  gaze  roved 
over  them,  and  he  was  aware  of  a  guilty  sorrow- 
pang  as  he  paused  for  a  moment  on  Lute's  Aunt 
Mildred  and  Uncle  Robert,  mellow  with  ripe  middle 
age  and  genial  with  the  gentle  buffets  life  had  dealt 


PLANCHETTE  229 

them.  He  passed  amusedly  over  the  black-eyed, 
frail-bodied  Mrs.  Grantly,  and  halted  on  the  fourth 
person,  a  portly,  massive-headed  man,  whose  gray 
temples  belied  the  youthful  solidity  of  his  face. 

"Who's  that?"    Chris  whispered. 

"A  Mr.  Barton.  The  train  was  late.  That's 
why  you  didn't  see  him  at  dinner.  He's  only  a 
capitalist  --  water -power -long -distance- electricity  - 
transmitter,  or  something  like  that." 

"Doesn't  look  as  though  he  could  give  an  ox 
points  on  imagination/' 

"He  can't.  He  inherited  his  money.  But  he 
knows  enough  to  hold  on  to  it  and  hire  other  men's 
brains.  He  is  very  conservative." 

"That  is  to  be  expected,"  was  Chris's  comment. 
His  gaze  went  back  to  the  man  and  woman  who 
had  been  father  and  mother  to  the  girl  beside  him. 
"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "it  came  to  me  with  a 
shock  yesterday  when  you  told  me  that  they  had 
turned  against  me  and  that  I  was  scarcely  tolerated. 
I  met  them  afterwards,  last  evening,  guiltily,  in  fear 
and  trembling  —  and  to-day,  too.  And  yet  I  could 
see  no  difference  from  of  old." 

"Dear   man,"    Lute   sighed.     "Hospitality   is   as 


230  PLANCHETTE 

natural  to  them  as  the  act  of  breathing.  But  it 
isn't  that,  after  all.  It  is  all  genuine  in  their  dear 
hearts.  No  matter  how  severe  the  censure  they  put 
upon  you  when  you  are  absent,  the  moment  they 
are  with  you  they  soften  and  are  all  kindness  and 
warmth.  As  soon  as  their  eyes  rest  on  you,  affec 
tion  and  love  come  bubbling  up.  You  are  so  made. 
Every  animal  likes  you.  All  people  like  you.  They 
can't  help  it.  You  can't  help  it.  You  are  uni 
versally  lovable,  and  the  best  of  it  is  that  you  don't 
know  it.  You  don't  know  it  now.  Even  as  I  tell 
it  to  you,  you  don't  realize  it,  you  won't  realize  it 
—  and  that  very  incapacity  to  realize  it  is  one  of 
the  reasons  why  you  are  so  loved.  You  are  in 
credulous  now,  and  you  shake  your  head;  but  I 
know,  who  am  your  slave,  as  all  people  know,  for 
they  likewise  are  your  slaves. 

"Why,  in  a  minute  we  shall  go  in  and  join  them. 
Mark  the  affection,  almost  maternal,  that  will  well 
up  in  Aunt  Mildred's  eyes.  Listen  to  the  tones  of 
Uncle  Robert's  voice  when  he  says,  'Well,  Chris, 
my  boy?'  Watch  Mrs.  Grantly  melt,  literally 
melt,  like  a  dewdrop  in  the  sun. 

"Take    Mr.    Barton,    there.     You    have    never 


PLANCHETTE  231 

seen  him  before.  Why,  you  will  invite  him  out  to 
smoke  a  cigar  with  you  when  the  rest  of  us  have 
gone  to  bed  —  you,  a  mere  nobody,  and  he  a  man 
of  many  millions,  a  man  of  power,  a  man  obtuse  and 
stupid  like  the  ox;  and  he  will  follow  you  about, 
smoking  the  cigar,  like  a  little  dog,  your  little  dog, 
trotting  at  your  back.  He  will  not  know  he  is  doing 
it,  but  he  will  be  doing  it  just  the  same.  Don't  I 
know,  Chris  ?  Oh,  I  have  watched  you,  watched 
you,  so  often,  and  loved  you  for  it,  and  loved  you 
again  for  it,  because  you  were  so  delightfully  and 
blindly  unaware  of  what  you  were  doing." 

"I'm  almost  bursting  with  vanity  from  listening 
to  you,"  he  laughed,  passing  his  arm  around  her 
and  drawing  her  against  him. 

"Yes,"  she  whispered,  "and  in  this  very  moment, 
when  you  are  laughing  at  all  that  I  have  said,  you, 
the  feel  of  you,  your  soul,  —  call  it  what  you  will, 
it  is  you,  —  is  calling  for  all  the  love  that  is  in  me." 

She  leaned  more  closely  against  him,  and  sighed 
as  with  fatigue.  He  breathed  a  kiss  into  her  hair 
and  held  her  with  firm  tenderness. 

Aunt  Mildred  stirred  briskly  and  looked  up  from 
the  Planchette  board. 


232  PLANCHETTE 

"Come,  let  us  begin,"  she  said.  "It  will  soon 
grow  chilly.  Robert,  where  are  those  children  ?" 

"Here  we  are,"  Lute  called  out,  disengaging  her 
self. 

"Now  for  a  bundle  of  creeps,"  Chris  whispered, 
as  they  started  in. 

Lute's  prophecy  of  the  manner  in  which  her  lover 
would  be  received  was  realized.  Mrs.  Grantly, 
unreal,  unhealthy,  scintillant  with  frigid  magnetism, 
warmed  and  melted  as  though  of  truth  she  were 
dew  and  he  sun.  Mr.  Barton  beamed  broadly 
upon  him,  and  was  colossally  gracious.  Aunt 
Mildred  greeted  him  with  a  glow  of  fondness  and 
motherly  kindness,  while  Uncle  Robert  genially 
and  heartily  demanded,  "Well,  Chris,  my  boy,  and 
what  of  the  riding  ?" 

But  Aunt  Mildred  drew  her  shawl  more  closely 
around  her  and  hastened  them  to  the  business  in 
hand.  On  the  table  was  a  sheet  of  paper.  On  the 
paper,  riding  on  three  supports,  was  a  small  tri 
angular  board.  Two  of  the  supports  were  easily 
moving  casters.  The  third  support,  placed  at  the 
apex  of  the  triangle,  was  a  lead  pencil. 

"Who's  first?"  Uncle  Robert  demanded. 


PLANCHETTE  233 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitancy,  then  Aunt 
Mildred  placed  her  hand  on  the  board,  and  said: 
"Some  one  has  always  to  be  the  fool  for  the  delec 
tation  of  the  rest." 

"  Brave  woman,"  applauded  her  husband.  "  Now, 
Mrs.  Grantly,  do  your  worst." 

"I?"  that  lady  queried.  "I  do  nothing.  The 
power,  or  whatever  you  care  to  think  it,  is  outside 
of  me,  as  it  is  outside  of  all  of  you.  As  to  what  that 
power  is,  I  will  not  dare  to  say.  There  is  such  a  power. 
I  have  had  evidences  of  it.  And  you  will  undoubt 
edly  have  evidences  of  it.  Now  please  be  quiet, 
everybody.  Touch  the  board  very  lightly,  but 
firmly,  Mrs.  Story;  but  do  nothing  of  your  own 
volition." 

Aunt  Mildred  nodded,  and  stood  with  her  hand 
on  Planchette;  while  the  rest  formed  about  her  in 
a  silent  and  expectant  circle.  But  nothing  hap 
pened.  The  minutes  ticked  away,  and  Planchette 
remained  motionless. 

"Be  patient,"  Mrs.  Grantly  counselled.  "Do 
not  struggle  against  any  influences  you  may  feel 
working  on  you.  But  do  not  do  anything  yourself. 
The  influence  will  take  care  of  that.  You  will  feel 


234  PLANCHETTE 

impelled  to  do  things,  and  such  impulses  will  be 
practically  irresistible." 

"I  wish  the  influence  would  hurry  up,"  Aunt 
Mildred  protested  at  the  end  of  five  motionless 
minutes. 

"Just  a  little  longer,  Mrs.  Story,  just  a  little 
longer,"  Mrs.  Grantly  said  soothingly. 

Suddenly  Aunt  Mildred's  hand  began  to  twitch 
into  movement.  A  mild  concern  showed  in  her 
face  as  she  observed  the  movement  of  her  hand  and 
heard  the  scratching  of  the  pencil-point  at  the  apex 
of  Planchette. 

For  another  five  minutes  this  continued,  when 
Aunt  Mildred  withdrew  her  hand  with  an  effort, 
and  said,  with  a  nervous  laugh: 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  did  it  myself  or  not. 
I  do  know  that  I  was  growing  nervous,  standing 
there  like  a  psychic  fool  with  all  your  solemn  faces 
turned  upon  me." 

"Hen-scratches,"  was  Uncle  Robert's  judgment, 
when  he  looked  over  the  paper  upon  which  she  had 
scrawled. 

"Quite  illegible,"  was  Mrs.  Grantly's  dictum. 
"It  does  not  resemble  writing  at  all.  The  influences 


PLANCHETTE  235 

have  not  got  to  working  yet.  Do  you  try  it,  Mr. 
Barton/' 

That  gentleman  stepped  forward,  ponderously 
willing  to  please,  and  placed  his  hand  on  the  board. 
And  for  ten  solid,  stolid  minutes  he  stood  there, 
motionless,  like  a  statue,  the  frozen  personification 
of  the  commercial  age.  Uncle  Robert's  face  began 
to  work.  He  blinked,  stiffened  his  mouth,  uttered 
suppressed,  throaty  sounds,  deep  down;  finally  he 
snorted,  lost  his  self-control,  and  broke  out  in  a 
roar  of  laughter.  All  joined  in  his  merriment, 
including  Mrs.  Grantly.  Mr.  Barton  laughed  with 
them,  but  he  was  vaguely  nettled. 

"You  try  it,  Story,"  he  said. 

Uncle  Robert,  still  laughing,  and  urged  on  by 
Lute  and  his  wife,  took  the  board.  Suddenly  his 
face  sobered.  His  hand  had  begun  to  move,  and 
the  pencil  could  be  heard  scratching  across  the  paper. 

"By  George!"  he  muttered.  ''That's  curious. 
Look  at  it.  I'm  not  doing  it.  I  know  I'm  not  doing 
it.  Look  at  that  hand  go!  Just  look  at  it!" 

"Now,  Robert,  none  of  your  ridiculousness," 
his  wife  warned  him. 

"I  tell  you  I'm  not  doing  it,"  he  replied  indig- 


236  PLANCHETTE 

nantly.  "The  force  has  got  hold  of  me.  Ask 
Mrs.  Grantly.  Tell  her  to  make  it  stop,  if  you  want 
it  to  stop.  I  can't  stop  it.  By  George !  look  at 
that  flourish.  I  didn't  do  that.  I  never  wrote  a 
flourish  in  my  life." 

"Do  try  to  be  serious,"  Mrs.  Grantly  warned 
them.  "An  atmosphere  of  levity  does  not  conduce 
to  the  best  operation  of  Planchette." 

"There,  that  will  do,  I  guess,"  Uncle  Robert 
said  as  he  took  his  hand  away.  "Now  let's  see." 

He  bent  over  and  adjusted  his  glasses.  "It's 
handwriting  at  any  rate,  and  that's  better  than  the 
rest  of  you  did.  Here,  Lute,  your  eyes  are  young." 

"Oh,  what  flourishes!"  Lute  exclaimed,  as  she 
looked  at  the  paper.  "And  look  there,  there  are 
two  different  handwritings." 

She  began  to  read :  "  This  is  the  first  lecture. 
Concentrate  on  this  sentence:  'I  am  a  positive  spirit 
and  not  negative  to  any  condition.'  Then  follow 
with  concentration  on  positive  love.  After  that 
peace  and  harmony  will  vibrate  through  and  around 
your  body.  Tour  soul  —  The  other  writing 
breaks  right  in.  This  is  the  way  it  goes :  Bullfrog 
95,  Dixie  1 6,  Golden  Anchor  65,  Gold  Mountain  13, 


PLANCHETTE  237 

Jim  Butler  70,  Jumbo  75,  North  Star  42,  Rescue  7, 
Black  Butte  75,  Brown  Hope  1 6,  Iron  "Top  3." 

"Iron  Top's  pretty  low/'  Mr.  Barton  murmured. 

"Robert,  you've  been  dabbling  again!"  Aunt 
Mildred  cried  accusingly. 

"No,  I've  not,"  he  denied.  "I  only  read  the 
quotations.  But  how  the  devil  —  I  beg  your  par 
don  —  they  got  there  on  that  piece  of  paper  I'd 
like  to  know." 

"Your  subconscious  mind,"  Chris  suggested. 
"You  read  the  quotations  in  to-day's  paper." 

"No,  I  didn't;  but  last  week  I  glanced  over  the 
column." 

"A  day  or  a  year  is  all  the  same  in  the  subconscious 
mind,"  said  Mrs.  Grantly.  "The  subconscious 
mind  never  forgets.  But  I  am  not  saying  that 
this  is  due  to  the  subconscious  mind.  I  refuse  to 
state  to  what  I  think  it  is  due." 

"But  how  about  that  other  stuff?"  Uncle  Robert 
demanded.  "Sounds  like  what  I'd  think  Christian 
Science  ought  to  sound  like." 

"Or  theosophy,"  Aunt  Mildred  volunteered. 
"Some  message  to  a  neophyte." 

"Go  on,  read  the  rest,"  her  husband  commanded. 


238  PLANCHETTE 

" This  puts  you  in  touch  with  the  mightier  spirits" 
Lute  read.  "You  shall  become  one  with  us,  and 
your  name  shall  be  * Arya*  and  you  shall  —  Con 
queror  2O,  Empire  12,  Columbia  Mountain  18,  Mid- 
way  140  —  and,  and  that  is  all.  Oh,  no !  here's 
a  last  flourish,  Arya,  from  Kandor  —  that  must 
surely  be  the  Mahatma." 

"I'd  like  to  have  you  explain  that  theosophy 
stuff  on  the  basis  of  the  subconscious  mind,  Chris," 
Uncle  Robert  challenged. 

Chris  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "No  explanation. 
You  must  have  got  a  message  intended  for  some  one 
else." 

"Lines  were  crossed,  eh  ?"  Uncle  Robert  chuckled. 
"Multiplex  spiritual  wireless  telegraphy,  I'd  call  it." 

"It  is  nonsense,"  Mrs.  Grantly  said.  "I  never 
knew  Planchette  to  behave  so  outrageously.  There 
are  disturbing  influences  at  work.  I  felt  them 
from  the  first.  Perhaps  it  is  because  you  are  all 
making  too  much  fun  of  it.  You  are  too  hilarious." 

"A  certain  befitting  gravity  should  grace  the  occa 
sion,"  Chris  agreed,  placing  his  hand  on  Planchette. 
"Let  me  try.  And  not  one  of  you  must  laugh  or 
giggle,  or  even  think  'laugh'  or  'giggle.'  And  if 


PLANCHETTE  239 

you  dare  to  snort,  even  once,  Uncle  Robert,  there 
is  no  telling  what  occult  vengeance  may  be  wreaked 
upon  you." 

"I'll  be  good,"  Uncle  Robert  rejoined.  "But 
if  I  really  must  snort,  may  I  silently  slip  away  ?" 

Chris  nodded.  His  hand  had  already  begun  to 
work.  There  had  been  no  preliminary  twitchings 
nor  tentative  essays  at  writing.  At  once  his  hand 
had  started  off,  and  Planchette  was  moving  swiftly 
and  smoothly  across  the  paper. 

"Look  at  him,"  Lute  whispered  to  her  aunt. 
"See  how  white  he  is." 

Chris  betrayed  disturbance  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  and  thereafter  silence  was  maintained.  Only 
could  be  heard  the  steady  scratching  of  the  pencil. 
Suddenly,  as  though  it  had  been  stung,  he  jerked 
his  hand  away.  With  a  sigh  and  a  yawn  he  stepped 
back  from  the  table,  then  glanced  with  the  curiosity 
of  a  newly  awakened  man  at  their  faces. 

"I  think  I  wrote  something,"  he  said. 

"I  should  say  you  did,"  Mrs.  Grantly  remarked 
with  satisfaction,  holding  up  the  sheet  of  paper 
and  glancing  at  it. 

"Read  it  aloud,"  Uncle  Robert  said. 


24o  PLANCHETTE 

"Here  it  is,  then.  It  begins  with  *  beware* 
written  three  times,  and  in  much  larger  characters 
than  the  rest  of  the  writing.  BEWARE!  BE 
WARE!  BEWARE!  Chris  Dunbar,  I  intend  to 
destroy  you.  I  have  already  made  two  attempts 
upon  your  life,  and  failed.  I  shall  yet  succeed.  So 
sure  am  I  that  I  shall  succeed  that  I  dare  to  tell  you. 
I  do  not  need  to  tell  you  why.  In  your  own  heart 
you  know.  The  wrong  you  are  doing  —  And 
here  it  abruptly  ends." 

Mrs.  Grantly  laid  the  paper  down  on  the  table 
and  looked  at  Chris,  who  had  already  become  the 
centre  of  all  eyes,  and  who  was  yawning  as  from  an 
overpowering  drowsiness. 

"Quite  a  sanguinary  turn,  I  should  say,"  Uncle 
Robert  remarked. 

"/  have  already  made  two  attempts  upon  your 
life,"  Mrs.  Grantly  read  from  the  paper,  which  she 
was  going  over  a  second  time. 

"On  my  life?"  Chris  demanded  between  yawns. 
"Why,  my  life  hasn't  been  attempted  even  once. 
My!  I  am  sleepy  !" 

"Ah,  my  boy,  you  are  thinking  of  flesh-and-blood 
men,"  Uncle  Robert  laughed.  "But  this  is  a  spirit. 


PLANCHETTE  241 

Your  life  has  been  attempted  by  unseen  things. 
Most  likely  ghostly  hands  have  tried  to  throttle  you 
in  your  sleep." 

"Oh,  Chris!"  Lute  cried  impulsively.  "This 
afternoon !  The  hand  you  said  must  have  seized 
your  rein !" 

"But  I  was  joking,"  he  objected. 

"Nevertheless  ..."  Lute  left  her  thought  un 
spoken. 

Mrs.  Grantly  had  become  keen  on  the  scent. 
"What  was  that  about  this  afternoon  ?  Was  your 
life  in  danger  ?" 

Chris's  drowsiness  had  disappeared.  "I'm  be 
coming  interested  myself,"  he  acknowledged.  "We 
haven't  said  anything  about  it.  Ban  broke  his 
back  this  afternoon.  He  threw  himself  off  the  bank, 
and  I  ran  the  risk  of  being  caught  underneath." 

"I  wonder,  I  wonder,"  Mrs.  Grantly  communed 
aloud.  "There  is  something  in  this.  ...  It  is 
a  warning.  .  .  .  Ah !  You  were  hurt  yesterday 
riding  Miss  Story's  horse !  That  makes  the  two 
attempts !" 

She  looked  triumphantly  at  them.  Planchette 
had  been  vindicated. 


242  PLANCHETTE 

"Nonsense,"  laughed  Uncle  Robert,  but  with  a 
slight  hint  of  irritation  in  his  manner.  "Such  things 
do  not  happen  these  days.  This  ;s  the  twentieth 
century,  my  dear  madam.  The  thing,  at  the  very 
latest,  smacks  of  medievalism." 

"I  have  had  such  wonderful  tests  with  Plan- 
chette,"  Mrs.  Grantly  began,  then  broke  off  sud 
denly  to  go  to  the  table  and  place  her  hand  on  the 
board. 

"Who  are  you?"  she  asked.  "What  is  your 
name  ?" 

The  board  immediately  began  to  write.  By  this 
time  all  heads,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Barton's, 
were  bent  over  the  table  and  following  the  pencil. 

"It's  Dick,"  Aunt  Mildred  cried,  a  note  of  the 
mildly  hysterical  in  her  voice. 

Her  husband  straightened  up,  his  face  for  the  first 
time  grave. 

"It's  Dick's  signature,"  he  said.  "I'd  know  his 
fist  in  a  thousand." 

" '  Dick  Curtis,9 "  Mrs.  Grantly  read  aloud.  "  Who 
is  Dick  Curtis?" 

"By  Jove,  that's  remarkable!"  Mr.  Barton  broke 
in.  "The  handwriting  in  both  instances  is  the 


PLANCHETTE  243 

same.     Clever,    I    should    say,    really    clever,"    he 
added  admiringly. 

"Let  me  see,"  Uncle  Robert  demanded,  taking 
the  paper  and  examining  it.  "Yes,  it  is  Dick's 
handwriting." 

"But  who  is  Dick?"  Mrs.  Grantly  insisted. 
"Who  is  this  Dick  Curtis?" 

"Dick  Curtis,  why,  he  was  Captain  Richard  Cur 
tis,"  Uncle  Robert  answered. 

"He  was  Lute's  father,"  Aunt  Mildred  supple 
mented.  "Lute  took  our  name.  She  never  saw 
him.  He  died  when  she  was  a  few  weeks  old.  He 
was  my  brother." 

"Remarkable,  most  remarkable."  Mrs.  Grantly 
was  revolving  the  message  in  her  mind.  "There 
were  two  attempts  on  Mr.  Dunbar's  life.  The  sub 
conscious  mind  cannot  explain  that,  for  none  of  us 
knew  of  the  accident  to-day." 

"  I  knew,"  Chris  answered,  "  and  it  was  I  that , 
operated   Planchette.     The  explanation  is  simple." 

"But  the  handwriting,"  interposed  Mr.  Barton. 
"What  you  wrote  and  what  Mrs.  Grantly  wrote  are 
identical." 

Chris  bent  over  and  compared  the  handwriting. 


244  PLANCHETTE 

"  Besides,"  Mrs.  Grantly  cried,  "  Mr.  Story  recog 
nizes  the  handwriting." 

She  looked  at  him  for  verification. 

He  nodded  his  head.  "Yes,  it  is  Dick's  fist. 
Fll  swear  to  that." 

But  to  Lute  had  come  a  visioning.  While  the 
rest  argued  pro  and  con  and  the  air  was  filled  with 
phrases,—  "psychic  phenomena,"  "self-hypnotism," 
"residuum  of  unexplained  truth,"  and  "spiritism," 
—  she  was  reviving  mentally  the  girlhood  pictures 
she  had  conjured  of  this  soldier-father  she  had 
never  seen.  She  possessed  his  sword,  there  were 
several  old-fashioned  daguerreotypes,  there  was 
much  that  had  been  said  of  him,  stories  told  of 
him  —  and  all  this  had  constituted  the  material  out 
of  which  she  had  builded  him  in  her  childhood 
fancy. 

"There  is  the  possibility  of  one  mind  uncon 
sciously  suggesting  to  another  mind,"  Mrs.  Grantly 
was  saying;  but  through  Lute's  mind  was  trooping 
her  father  on  his  great  roan  war-horse.  Now  he 
was  leading  his  men.  She  saw  him  on  lonely  scouts, 
or  in  the  midst  of  the  yelling  Indians  at  Salt  Meadows, 
when  of  his  command  he  returned  with  one  man 


PLANCHETTE  245 

in  ten.  And  in  the  picture  she  had  of  him,  in  the 
physical  semblance  she  had  made  of  him,  was  re 
flected  his  spiritual  nature,  reflected  by  her  wor 
shipful  artistry  in  form  and  feature  and  expression 
-  his  bravery,  his  quick  temper,  his  impulsive 
championship,  his  madness  of  wrath  in  a  righteous 
cause,  his  warm  generosity  and  swift  forgiveness, 
and  his  chivalry  that  epitomized  codes  and  ideals 
primitive  as  the  days  of  knighthood.  And  first, 
last,  and  always,  dominating  all,  she  saw  in  the 
face  of  him  the  hot  passion  and  quickness  of  deed 
that  had  earned  for  him  the  name  "Fighting  Dick 
Curtis." 

"Let  me  put  it  to  the  test,"  she  heard  Mrs.  Grantly 
saying.  "Let  Miss  Story  try  Planchette.  There 
may  be  a  further  message." 

"No,  no,  I  beg  of  you,"  Aunt  Mildred  interposed. 
"It  is  too  uncanny.  It  surely  is  wrong  to  tamper 
with  the  dead.  Besides,  I  am  nervous.  Or,  better, 
let  me  go  to  bed,  leaving  you  to  go  on  with  your  ex 
periments.  That  will  be  the  best  way,  and  you 
can  tell  me  in  the  morning."  Mingled  with  the 
"Good-nights,"  were  half-hearted  protests  from 
Mrs.  Grantly,  as  Aunt  Mildred  withdrew. 


246  PLANCHETTE 

"Robert  can  return,"  she  called  back,  "as  soon 
as  he  has  seen  me  to  my  tent." 

"It  would  be  a  shame  to  give  it  up  now,"  Mrs. 
Grantly  said.  "There  is  no  telling  what  we  are  on 
the  verge  of.  Won't  you  try  it,  Miss  Story?" 

Lute  obeyed,  but  when  she  placed  her  hand  on 
the  board  she  was  conscious  of  a  vague  and  name 
less  fear  at  this  toying  with  the  supernatural.  She 
was  twentieth-century,  and  the  thing  in  essence,  as 
her  uncle  had  said,  was  mediaeval.  Yet  she  could 
not  shake  off  the  instinctive  fear  that  arose  in  her 

—  man's    inheritance   from    the   wild    and    howling 
ages  when  his  hairy,  apelike    prototype   was  afraid 
of  the  dark  and  personified  the  elements  into  things 
of  fear. 

But  as  the  mysterious  influence  seized  her  hand 
and  sent  it  writing  across  the  paper,  all  the  unusual 
passed  out  of  the  situation  and  she  was  unaware  of 
more  .nan  a  feeble  curiosity.  For  she  was  intent 
on  another  visioning  —  this  time  of  her  mother, 
who  was  also  unremembered  in  the  flesh.  Not 
sharp  and  vivid  like  that  of  her  father,  but  dim  and 
nebulous  was  the  picture  she  shaped  of  her  mother. 

—  a   saint's   head   in   an   aureole   of  sweetness   and 


PLANCHETTE  247 

goodness  and  meekness,  and  withal,  shot  through 
with  a  hint  of  reposeful  determination,  of  will,  stub 
born  and  unobtrusive,  that  in  life  had  expressed 
itself  mainly  in  resignation. 

Lute's  hand  had  ceased  moving,  and  Mrs.  Grantly 
was  already  reading  the  message  that  had  been 
written. 

"It  is  a  different  handwriting,"  she  said.  "A 
woman's  hand.  'Martha/  it  is  signed.  Who  is 
Martha  ?" 

Lute  was  not  surprised.  "It  is  my  mother,"  she 
said  simply.  "What  does  she  say?" 

She  had  not  been  made  sleepy,  as  Chris  had;  but 
the  keen  edge  of  her  vitality  had  been  blunted,  and 
she  was  experiencing  a  sweet  and  pleasing  lassitude. 
And  while  the  message  was  being  read,  in  her  eyes 
persisted  the  vision  of  her  mother. 

"Dear  child,"  Mrs.  Grantly  read,  "do  not  mind 
him.  He  was  ever  quick  of  speech  and  rash.  Be  no 
niggard  with  your  love.  Love  cannot  hurt  you.  To 
deny  love  is  to  sin.  Obey  your  heart  and  you  can 
do  no  wrong.  Obey  worldly  considerations,  obey 
pride,  obey  those  that  prompt  you  against  your  heart's 
prompting,  and  you  do  sin.  Do  not  mind  your 


248  PLANCHETTE 

father.  He  is  angry  now,  as  was  bis  way  in 
the  earth-life;  but  he  will  come  to  see  the  wisdom  of 
my  counsel,  for  this,  too,  was  his  way  in  the  earth- 
life.  Love,  my  child,  and  love  well. — Martha." 

"Let  me  see  it,"  Lute  cried,  seizing  the  paper 
and  devouring  the  handwriting  with  her  eyes.  She 
was  thrilling  with  unexpressed  love  for  the  mother 
she  had  never  seen,  and  this  written  speech  from 
the  grave  seemed  to  give  more  tangibility  to  her 
having  ever  existed,  than  did  the  vision  of  her. 

"This  is  remarkable,"  Mrs.  Grantly  was  reiterat 
ing.  "There  was  never  anything  like  it.  Think 
of  it,  my  dear,  both  your  father  and  mother  here 
with  us  to-night." 

Lute  shivered.  The  lassitude  was  gone,  and  she 
was  her  natural  self  again,  vibrant  with  the  instinc 
tive  fear  of  things  unseen.  And  it  was  offensive 
to  her  mind  that,  real  or  illusion,  the  presence  or 
the  memoried  existences  of  her  father  and  mother 
should  be  touched  by  these  two  persons  who  were 
practically  strangers  —  Mrs.  Grantly,  unhealthy  and 
morbid,  and  Mr.  Barton,  stolid  and  stupid  with 
a  grossness  both  of  the  flesh  and  the  spirit.  And 
it  further  seemed  a  trespass  that  these  strangers 


PLANCHETTE  249 

should  thus  enter  into  the  intimacy  between  her 
and  Chris. 

She  could  hear  the  steps  of  her  uncle  approaching, 
and  the  situation  flashed  upon  her,  luminous  and 
clear.  She  hurriedly  folded  the  sheet  of  paper  and 
thrust  it  into  her  bosom. 

"Don't  say  anything  to  him  about  this  second 
message,  Mrs.  Grantly,  please,  and  Mr.  Barton. 
Nor  to  Aunt  Mildred.  It  would  only  cause  them 
irritation  and  needless  anxiety." 

In  her  mind  there  was  also  the  desire  to  protect 
her  lover,  for  she  knew  that  the  strain  of  his  present 
standing  with  her  aunt  and  uncle  would  be  added 
to,  unconsciously  in  their  minds,  by  the  weird  mes 
sage  of  Planchette. 

"And  please  don't  let  us  have  any  more  Plan 
chette,"  Lute  continued  hastily.  "Let  us  forget 
all  the  nonsense  that  has  occurred." 

"' Nonsense/  my  dear  child?"  Mrs.  Grantly  was 
indignantly  protesting  when  Uncle  Robert  strode 
into  the  circle. 

"Hello!"  he  demanded.     "What's  being  done?" 

"Too  late,"  Lute  answered  lightly.  "No  more 
stock  quotations  for  you.  Planchette  is  adjourned, 


250  PLANCHETTE 

and  we're   just  winding  up  the  discussion  of  the 
theory  of  it.     Do  you  know  how  late  it  is  ?" 

He  ****** 

"Well,  what  did  you  do  last  night  after  we  left  ?" 
"Oh,  took  a  stroll,"  Chris  answered. 
Lute's  eyes  were  quizzical  as  she  asked  with  a 
tentativeness    that    was    palpably    assumed,    "With 
—  a  —  with  Mr.   Barton?" 
"Why,  yes." 
"And  a  smoke?" 

"Yes;    and  now  what's  it  all  about?" 
Lute    broke    into    merry    laughter.     "Just    as    I 
told  you  that  you  would  do.     Am  I  not  a  prophet  ? 
But  I  knew  before  I  saw  you  that  my  forecast  had 
come  true.    I  have  just  left  Mr.  Barton,  and  I  knew 
he  had  walked  with  you  last  night,  for  he  is  vowing  by 
all  his  fetishes   and  idols  that  you  are  a  perfectly 
splendid  young  man.     I  could  see  it  with  my  eyes 
shut.     The  Chris  Dunbar  glamour  has  fallen  upon 
him.     But  I  have  not  finished  the  catechism,  by  any 
means.     Where   have  you  been  all  morning?" 
"Where  I  am  going  to  take  you  this  afternoon." 
"You  plan  well  without  knowing  my  wishes." 
"I  knew  well  what  your  wishes  are.     It  is  to  see 
a  horse  I  have  found." 


PLANCHETTE  251 

Her  voice  betrayed  her  delight,  as  she  cried, 
"Oh,  good!" 

"He  is  a  beauty,"  Chris  said. 

But  her  face  had  suddenly  gone  grave,  and  appre 
hension  brooded  in  her  eyes. 

"He's  called  Comanche,"  Chris  went  on.  "A 
beauty,  a  regular  beauty,  the  perfect  type  of  the 
Californian  cow-pony.  And  his  lines  —  why,  what's 
the  matter?" 

"Don't  let  us  ride  any  more,"  Lute  said,  "at 
least  for  a  while.  Really,  I  think  I  am  a  tiny  bit 
tired  of  it,  too." 

He  was  looking  at  her  in  astonishment,  and  she 
was  bravely  meeting  his  eyes. 

"I  see  hearses  and  flowers  for  you,"  he  began,  "  and 
a  funeral  oration ;  I  see  the  end  of  the  world,  and  the 
stars  falling  out  of  the  sky,  and  the  heavens  rolling  up 
as  a  scroll;  I  see  the  living  and  the  dead  gathered 
together  for  the  final  judgment,  the  sheep  and  the 
goats,  the  lambs  and  the  rams  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
the  white-robed  saints,  the  sound  of  golden  harps, 
and  the  lost  souls  howling  as  they  fall  into  the  Pit  - 
all  this  I  see  on  the  day  that  you,  Lute  Story,  no  longer 
care  to  ride  a  horse.  A  horse,  Lute!  a  horse!" 


252  PLANCHETTE 

"For  a  while,  at  least,"  she  pleaded. 

"Ridiculous!"  he  cried.  "What's  the  matter? 
Aren't  you  well  ?  —  you  who  are  always  so  abomi 
nably  and  adorably  well!" 

"No,  it's  not  that,"  she  answered.  "I  know  it 
is  ridiculous,  Chris,  I  know  it,  but  the  doubt  will 
arise.  I  cannot  help  it.  You  always  say  I  am  so 
sanely  rooted  to  the  earth  and  reality  and  all  that, 
but  —  perhaps  it's  superstition,  I  don't  know  — 
but  the  whole  occurrence,  the  messages  of  Planchette, 
the  possibility  of  my  father's  hand,  I  know  not  how, 
reaching  out  to  Ban's  rein  and  hurling  him  and  you 
to  death,  the  correspondence  between  my  father's 
statement  that  he  has  twice  attempted  your  life  and 
the  fact  that  in  the  last  two  days  your  life  has  twice 
been  endangered  by  horses  —  my  father  was  a  great 
horseman  —  all  this,  I  say,  causes  the  doubt  to 
arise  in  my  mind.  What  if  there  be  something  in 
it  ?  I  am  not  so  sure.  Science  may  be  too  dog 
matic  in  its  denial  of  the  unseen.  The  forces  of 
the  unseen,  of  the  spirit,  may  well  be  too  subtle, 
too  sublimated,  for  science  to  lay  hold  of,  and  recog 
nize,  and  formulate.  Don't  you  see,  Chris,  that 
there  is  rationality  in  the  very  doubt  ?  It  may  be 


PLANCHETTE  253 

a  very  small  doubt  —  oh,  so  small;  but  I  love  you 
too  much  to  run  even  that  slight  risk.  Besides,  I 
am  a  woman,  and  that  should  in  itself  fully  account 
for  my  predisposition  toward  superstition. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  call  it  unreality.  But  I've 
heard  you  paradoxing  upon  the  reality  of  the  un 
real  —  the  reality  of  delusion  to  the  mind  that  is 
sick.  And  so  with  me,  if  you  will;  it  is  delusion 
and  unreal,  but  to  me,  constituted  as  I  am,  it  is  very 
real  —  is  real  as  a  nightmare  is  real,  in  the  throes 
of  it,  before  one  awakes." 

"The  most  logical  argument  for  illogic  I  have 
ever  heard,"  Chris  smiled.  "It  is  a  good  gaming 
proposition,  at  any  rate.  You  manage  to  embrace 
more  chances  in  your  philosophy  than  do  I  in  mine. 
It  reminds  me  of  Sam  —  the  gardener  you  had  a 
couple  of  years  ago.  I  overheard  him  and  Martin 
arguing  in  the  stable.  You  know  what  a  bigoted 
atheist  Martin  is.  Well,  Martin  had  deluged  Sam 
with  floods  of  logic.  Sam  pondered  awhile,  and 
then  he  said,  'Foh  a  fack,  Mis'  Martin,  you  jis' 
tawk  like  a  house  afire;  but  you  ain't  got  de  show 
I  has/  'How's  that?'  Martin  asked.  'Well,  you 
see,  Mis'  Martin,  you  has  one  chance  to  mah  two.' 


254  PLANCHETTE 

'I  don't  see  it,'  Martin  said.  'Mis'  Martin,  it's 
dis  way.  You  has  jis'  de  chance,  lak  you  say,  to 
become  worms  foh  de  fruitification  of  de  cabbage 
garden.  But  Fs  got  de  chance  to  HP  mah  voice  to 
de  glory  of  de  Lawd  as  I  go  paddin'  dem  golden 
streets  —  along  'ith  de  chance  to  be  jis'  worms 
along  'ith  you,  Mis'  Martin.'" 

"You  refuse  to  take  me  seriously,"  Lute  said, 
when  she  had  laughed  her  appreciation. 

"How  can  I  take  that  Planchette  rigmarole 
seriously?"  he  asked. 

"You  don't  explain  it  —  the  handwriting  of  my 
father,  which  Uncle  Robert  recognized  —  oh,  the 
whole  thing,  you  don't  explain  it." 

"I  don't  know  all  the  mysteries  of  mind,"  Chris 
answered.  "But  I  believe  such  phenomena  will 
all  yield  to  scientific  explanation  in  the  not  dis 
tant  future." 

"Just  the  same,  I  have  a  sneaking  desire  to  find 
out  some  more  from  Planchette,"  Lute  confessed. 
"The  board  is  still  down  in  the  dining  room.  We 
could  try  it  now,  you  and  I,  and  no  one  would  know." 

Chris  caught  her  hand,  crying :  "  Come  on !  It 
will  be  a  lark." 


PLANCHETTE 


255 


Hand  in  hand  they  ran  down  the  path  to  the  tree- 
pillared  room. 

"The  camp  is  deserted,"  Lute  said,  as  she  placed 
Planchette  on  the  table.  "Mrs.  Grantly  and  Aunt 
Mildred  are  lying  down,  and  Mr.  Barton  has  gone  off 
with  Uncle  Robert.  There  is  nobody  to  disturb  us." 
She  placed  her  hand  on  the  board.  "Now  begin." 

For  a  few  minutes  nothing  happened.  Chris 
started  to  speak,  but  she  hushed  him  to  silence. 
The  preliminary  twitchings  had  appeared  in  her  hand 
and  arm.  Then  the  pencil  began  to  write.  They 
read  the  message,  word  by  word,  as  it  was  written : 

There  is  wisdom  greater  than  the  wisdom  of  reason. 
Love  proceeds  not  out  of  the  dry-as-dust  way  of  the 
mind.  Love  is  of  the  heart,  and  is  beyond  all  reason, 
and  logic,  and  philosophy.  Trust  your  own  heart, 
my  daughter.  And  if  your  heart  bids  you  have 
faith  in  your  lover,  then  laugh  at  the  mind  and  its 
cold  wisdom,  and.  obey  your  heart,  and  have  faith 
in  your  lover.  —  Martha. 

"But  that  whole  message  is  the  dictate  of  your 
own  heart,"  Chris  cried.  "  Don't  you  see,  Lute  ? 
The  thought  is  your  very  own,  and  your  subcon 
scious  mind  has  expressed  it  there  on  the  paper." 


256  PLANCHETTE 

"  But  there  is  one  thing  I  don't  see/'  she  objected. 

"And  that?" 

"Is  the  handwriting.  Look  at  it.  It  does  not 
resemble  mine  at  all.  It  is  mincing,  it  is  old-fash 
ioned,  it  is  the  old-fashioned  feminine  of  a  generation 
ago." 

"But  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  really 
believe  that  this  is  a  message  from  the  dead  ?"  he 
interrupted. 

"I  don't  know,  Chris,"  she  wavered.  "I  am 
sure  I  don't  know." 

"It  is  absurd!"  he  cried.  "These  are  cobwebs 
of  fancy.  When  one  dies,  he  is  dead.  He  is  dust. 
He  goes  to  the  worms,  as  Martin  says.  THe  dead  ? 
I  laugh  at  the  dead.  They  do  not  exist.  They  are 
not.  I  defy  the  powers  of  the  grave,  the  men  dead 
and  dust  and  gone ! 

"And  what  have  you  to  say  to  that?"  he  chal 
lenged,  placing  his  hand  on  Planchette. 

On  the  instant  his  hand  began  to  write.  Both 
were  startled  by  the  suddenness  of  it.  The  message 
was  brief: 

BEWARE!  BEWARE!  BEWARE! 


PLANCHETTE  257 

He  was  distinctly  sobered,  but  he  laughed.  "  It 
is  like  a  miracle  play.  Death  we  have,  speaking 
to  us  from  the  grave.  But  Good  Deeds,  where  art 
thou  ?  And  Kindred  ?  and  Joy  ?  and  Household 
Goods  ?  and  Friendship  ?  and  all  the  goodly  com 
pany?" 

But  Lute  did  not  share  his  bravado.  Her  fright 
showed  itself  in  her  face.  She  laid  her  trembling 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Oh,  Chris,  let  us  stop.  I  am  sorry  we  began  it. 
Let  us  leave  the  quiet  dead  to  their  rest.  It  is 
wrong.  It  must  be  wrong.  I  confess  I  am  affected 
by  it.  I  cannot  help  it.  As  my  body  is  trembling, 
so  is  my  soul.  This  speech  of  the  grave,  this  dead 
man  reaching  out  from  the  mould  of  a  generation 
to  protect  me  from  you.  There  is  reason  in  it. 
There  is  the  living  mystery  that  prevents  you  from 
marrying  me.  Were  my  father  alive,  he  would  pro 
tect  me  from  you.  Dead,  he  still  strives  to  protect 
me.  His  hands,  his  ghostly  hands,  are  against  your 
life!" 

"Do  be  calm,"  Chris  said  soothingly.  "Listen 
to  me.  It  is  all  a  lark.  We  are  playing  with  the 
subjective  forces  of  our  own  being,  with  phenomena 


258  PLANCHETTE 

which  science  has  not  yet  explained,  that  is  all. 
Psychology  is  so  young  a  science.  The  subcon 
scious  mind  has  just  been  discovered,  one  might 
say.  It  is  all  mystery  as  yet ;  the  laws  of  it  are  yet 
to  be  formulated.  This  is  simply  unexplained 
phenomena.  But  that  is  no  reason  that  we  should 
immediately  account  for  it  by  labelling  it  spiritism. 
As  yet  we  do  not  know,  that  is  all.  As  for  Plan- 
chette  —  " 

He  abruptly  ceased,  for  at  that  moment,  to  en 
force  his  remark,  he  had  placed  his  hand  on  Plan- 
chette,  and  at  that  moment  his  hand  had  been  seized, 
as  by  a  paroxysm,  and  sent  dashing,  willy-nilly, 
across  the  paper,  writing  as  the  hand  of  an  angry 
person  would  write. 

"No,  I  don't  care  for  any  more  of  it,"  Lute  said, 
when  the  message  was  completed.  "It  is  like  wit 
nessing  a  fight  between  you  and  my  father  in  the 
flesh.  There  is  the  savor  in  it  of  struggle  and 
blows." 

She  pointed  out  a  sentence  that  read :  Ton 
cannot  escape  me  nor  the  just  punishment  that  is 
yours  ! 

"Perhaps  I  visualize  too  vividly  for  my  own  coi 


PLANCHETTE  259 

fort,  for  I  can  see  his  hands  at  your  throat.  I  know 
that  he  is,  as  you  say,  dead  and  dust,  but  for  all 
that,  I  can  see  him  as  a  man  that  is  alive  and  walks 
the  earth;  I  see  the  anger  in  his  face,  the  anger 
and  the  vengeance,  and  I  see  it  all  directed  against 
you." 

She  crumpled  up  the  scrawled  sheets  of  paper, 
and  put  Planchette  away. 

"We  won't  bother  with  it  any  more,"  Chris  said. 
"I  didn't  think  it  would  affect  you  so  strongly. 
But  it's  all  subjective,  I'm  sure,  with  possibly  a 
bit  of  suggestion  thrown  in  —  that  and  nothing 
more.  And  the  whole  strain  of  our  situation  has 
made  conditions  unusually  favorable  for  striking 
phenomena." 

"And  about  our  situation,"  Lute  said,  as  they 
went  slowly  up  the  path  they  had  run  down.  "What 
we  are  to  do,  I  don't  know.  Are  we  to  go  on,  as 
we  have  gone  on  ?  What  is  best  ?  Have  you  thought 
of  anything  ?" 

. 

He  debated  for  a  few  steps.  "I  have  thought 
of  telling  your  uncle  and  aunt." 

"What  you  couldn't  tell  me  ?"  she  asked  quickly. 
"No,"  he  answered  slowly;    "but  just  as  much 


260  PLANCHETTE 

as  I  have  told  you.  I  have  no  right  to  tell  them 
more  than  I  have  told  you." 

This  time  it  was  she  that  debated.  "No,  don't 
tell  them,"  she  said  finally.  "They  wouldn't  under 
stand.  I  don't  understand,  for  that  matter,  but  I 
have  faith  in  you,  and  in  the  nature  of  things  they 
are  not  capable  of  this  same  implicit  faith.  You 
raise  up  before  me  a  mystery  that  prevents  our 
marriage,  and  I  believe  you;  but  they  could  not 
believe  you  without  doubts  arising  as  to  the  wrong 
and  ill-nature  of  the  mystery.  Besides,  it  would 
but  make  their  anxieties  greater." 

"I  should  go  away,  I  know  I  should  go  away," 
he  said,  half  under  his  breath.  "And  I  can.  I 
am  no  weakling.  Because  I  have  failed  to  remain 
away  once,  is  no  reason  that  I  shall  fail  again." 

She  caught  her  breath  with  a  quick  gasp.  "It 
is  like  a  bereavement  to  hear  you  speak  of  going 
away  and  remaining  away.  I  should  never  see 
you  again.  It  is  too  terrible.  And  do  not  reproach 
yourself  for  weakness.  It  is  I  who  am  to  blame. 
It  is  I  who  prevented  you  from  remaining  away 
before,  I  know.  I  wanted  you  so.  I  want  you  so. 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  done,  Chris,  nothing  to 


PLANCHETTE  261 

be  done  but  to  go  on  with  it  and  let  it  work  itself 
out  somehow.  That  is  one  thing  we  are  sure  of: 
it  will  work  out  somehow." 

"But  it  would  be  easier  if  I  went  away,"  he 
suggested. 

"I  am  happier  when  you  are  here." 

"The  cruelty  of  circumstance,' '  he  muttered 
savagely. 

"Go  or  stay — that  will  be  part  of  the  working  out. 
But  I  do  not  want  you  to  go,  Chris;  you  know  that. 
And  now  no  more  about  it.  Talk  cannot  mend  it. 
Let  us  never  mention  it  again  —  unless  .  .  .  unless 
some  time,  some  wonderful,  happy  time,  you  can 
come  to  me  and  say:  'Lute,  all  is  well  with  me. 
The  mystery  no  longer  binds  me.  I  am  free/ 
Until  that  time  let  us  bury  it,  along  with  Planchette 
and  all  the  rest,  and  make  the  most  of  the  little  that 
is  given  us. 

"And  now,  to  show  you  how  prepared  I  am  to 
make  the  most  of  that  little,  I  am  even  ready  to  go 
with  you  this  afternoon  to  see  the  horse  —  though 
I  wish  you  wouldn't  ride  any  more  .  .  .  for  a  few 
days,  anyway,  or  for  a  week.  What  did  you  say 
was  his  name?" 


262  PLANCHETTE 

" Comanche,"  he   answered.     "I   know  you  will 
like  him." 
******* 

Chris  lay  on  his  back,  his  head  propped  by  the 
bare  jutting  wall  of  stone,  his  gaze  attentively 
directed  across  the  canyon  to  the  opposing  tree- 
covered  slope.  There  was  a  sound  of  crashing 
through  underbrush,  the  ringing  of  steel-shod  hoofs 
on  stone,  and  an  occasional  and  mossy  descent  of 
a  dislodged  boulder  that  bounded  from  the  hill 
and  fetched  up  with  a  final  splash  in  the  torrent 
that  rushed  over  a  wild  chaos  of  rocks  beneath  him. 
Now  and  again  he  caught  glimpses,  framed  in  green 
foliage,  of  the  golden  brown  of  Lute's  corduroy 
riding-habit  and  of  the  bay  horse  that  moved 
beneath  her. 

She  rode  out  into  an  open  space  where  a  loose 
earth-slide  denied  lodgement  to  trees  and  grass. 
She  halted  the  horse  at  the  brink  of  the  slide  and 
glanced  down  it  with  a  measuring  eye.  Forty 
feet  beneath,  the  slide  terminated  in  a  small,  firm- 
surfaced  terrace,  the  banked  accumulation  of  fallen 
earth  and  gravel. 

"It's  a  good  test,"  she  called  across  the  canyon. 
"I'm  going  to  put  him  down  it." 


PLANCHETTE  263 

The  animal  gingerly  launched  himself  on  the 
treacherous  footing,  irregularly  losing  and  gain 
ing  his  hind  feet,  keeping  his  fore  legs  stiff,  and 
steadily  and  calmly,  without  panic  or  nervousness, 
extricating  the  fore  feet  as  fast  as  they  sank  too  deep 
into  the  sliding  earth  that  surged  along  in  a  wave 
before  him.  When  the  firm  footing  at  the  bottom 
was  reached,  he  strode  out  on  the  little  terrace  with 
a  quickness  and  springiness  of  gait  and  with  glint- 
ings  of  muscular  fires  that  gave  the  lie  to  the  calm 
deliberation  of  his  movements  on  the  slide. 

"Bravo!"  Chris  shouted  across  the  canyon,  clap 
ping  his  hands. 

"The  wisest-footed,  clearest-headed  horse  I  ever 
saw,"  Lute  called  back,  as  she  turned  the  animal 
to  the  side  and  dropped  down  a  broken  slope  of 
rubble  and  into  the  trees  again. 

Chris  followed  her  by  the  sound  of  her  progress, 
and  by  occasional  glimpses  where  the  foliage  was 
more  open,  as  she  zigzagged  down  the  steep  and 
trailless  descent.  She  emerged  below  him  at  the 
rugged  rim  of  the  torrent,  dropped  the  horse  down 
a  three-foot  wall,  and  halted  to  study  the  crossing. 

Four  feet  out  in  the  stream,  a  narrow  ledge  thrust 


264  PLANCHETTE 

above  the  surface  of  the  water.  Beyond  the  ledge 
boiled  an  angry  pool.  But  to  the  left,  from  the 
ledge,  and  several  feet  lower,  was  a  tiny  bed  of 
gravel.  A  giant  boulder  prevented  direct  access 
to  the  gravel  bed.  The  only  way  to  gain  it  was 
by  first  leaping  to  the  ledge  of  rock.  She  studied 
it  carefully,  and  the  tightening  of  her  bridle-arm 
advertised  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind. 

Chris,  in  his  anxiety,  had  sat  up  to  observe  more 
closely  what  she  meditated. 

"Don't  tackle  it,"  he  called. 

"I  have  faith  in  Comanche,"  she  called  in  return. 

"He  can't  make  that  side-jump  to  the  gravel," 
Chris  warned.  "He'll  never  keep  his  legs.  He'll 
topple  over  into  the  pool.  Not  one  horse  in  a  thou 
sand  could  do  that  stunt." 

"And  Comanche  is  that  very  horse,"  she  answered. 
"Watch  him." 

She  gave  the  animal  his  head,  and  he  leaped 
cleanly  and  accurately  to  the  ledge,  striking  with 
feet  close  together  on  the  narrow  space.  On  the 
instant  he  struck,  Lute  lightly  touched  his  neck 
with  the  rein,  impelling  him  to  the  left;  and  in  that 
instant,  tottering  on  the  insecure  footing,  with  front 


PLANCHETTE  265 

feet  slipping  over  into  the  pool  beyond,  he  lifted  on 
his  hind  legs,  with  a  half  turn,  sprang  to  the  left, 
and  dropped  squarely  down  to  the  tiny  gravel 
bed.  An  easy  jump  brought  him  across  the  stream, 
and  Lute  angled  him  up  the  bank  and  halted  be 
fore  her  lover. 

"Well?"   she  asked. 

"I  am  all  tense,"  Chris  answered.  "I  was  hold 
ing  my  breath." 

"  Buy  him,  by  all  means,"  Lute  said,  dismounting. 
"He  is  a  bargain.  I  could  dare  anything  on  him. 
I  never  in  my  life  had  such  confidence  in  a  horse's 
feet." 

"  His  owner  says  that  he  has  never  been  known  to 
lose  his  feet,  that  it  is  impossible  to  get  him  down." 

"  Buy  him,  buy  him  at  once,"  she  counselled, 
"before  the  man  changes  his  mind.  If  you  don't, 
I  shall.  Oh,  such  feet !  I  feel  such  confidence  in 
them  that  when  I  am  on  him  I  don't  consider  he  has 
feet  at  all.  And  he's  quick  as  a  cat,  and  instantly 
obedient.  Bridle-wise  is  no  name  for  it !  You 
could  guide  him  with  silken  threads.  Oh,  I  know 
I'm  enthusiastic,  but  if  you  don't  buy  him,  Chris, 
I  shall.  Remember,  I've  second  refusal." 


266  PLANCHETTE 

Chris  smiled  agreement  as  he  changed  the  saddles. 
Meanwhile  she  compared  the  two  horses. 

"Of  course  he  doesn't  match  Dolly  the  way  Ban 
did,"  she  concluded  regretfully;  "but  his  coat  is 
splendid  just  the  same.  And  think  of  the  horse  that 
is  under  the  coat!" 

Chris  gave  her  a  hand  into  the  saddle,  and  fol 
lowed  her  up  the  slope  to  the  county  road.  She 
reined  in  suddenly,  saying: 

"We  won't  go  straight  back  to  camp." 

"You  forget  dinner,"  he  warned. 

"But  I  remember  Comanche,"  she  retorted. 
"We'll  ride  directly  over  to  the  ranch  and  buy  him. 
Dinner  will  keep." 

"But  the  cook  won't,"  Chris  laughed.  "She's 
already  threatened  to  leave,  what  of  our  late- 
comings." 

"Even  so,"  was  the  answer.  "Aunt  Mildred 
may  have  to  get  another  cook,  but  at  any  rate  we 
shall  have  got  Comanche." 

They  turned  the  horses  in  the  other  direction, 
and  took  the  climb  of  the  Nun  Canyon  road  that 
led  over  the  divide  and  down  into  the  Napa  Valley. 
But  the  climb  was  hard,  the  going  was  slow.  Some- 


PLANCHETTE  267 

times  they  topped  the  bed  of  the  torrent  by  hun 
dreds  of  feet,  and  again  they  dipped  down  and 
crossed  and  recrossed  it  twenty  times  in  twice  as 
many  rods.  They  rode  through  the  deep  shade  of 
clean-trunked  maples  and  towering  redwoods,  to 
emerge  on  open  stretches  of  mountain  shoulder 
where  the  earth  lay  dry  and  cracked  under  the  sun. 

On  one  such  shoulder  they  emerged,  where  the 
road  stretched  level  before  them,  for  a  quarter  of 
a  mile.  On  one  side  rose  the  huge  bulk  of  the 
mountain.  On  the  other  side  the  steep  wall  of  the 
canyon  fell  away  in  impossible  slopes  and  sheer 
drops  to  the  torrent  at  the  bottom.  It  was  an  abyss 
of  green  beauty  and  shady  depths,  pierced  by  va 
grant  shafts  of  the  sun  and  mottled  here  and  there 
by  the  sun's  broader  blazes.  The  sound  of  rushing 
water  ascended  on  the  windless  air,  and  there  was 
a  hum  of  mountain  bees. 

The  horses  broke  into  an  easy  lope.  Chris  rode 
on  the  outside,  looking  down  into  the  great  depths 
and  pleasuring  with  his  eyes  in  what  he  saw.  Dis 
sociating  itself  from  the  murmur  of  the  bees,  a 
murmur  arose  of  falling  water.  It  grew  louder 
with  every  stride  of  the  horses. 


268  PLANCHETTE 

"Look!"  he  cried. 

Lute  leaned  well  out  from  her  horse  to  see.  Be 
neath  them  the  water  slid  foaming  down  a  smooth 
faced  rock  to  the  lip,  whence  it  leaped  clear  —  a 
pulsating  ribbon  of  white,  a-breath  with  movement, 
ever  falling  and  ever  remaining,  changing  its  sub 
stance  but  never  its  form,  an  aerial  waterway  as 
immaterial  as  gauze  and  as  permanent  as  the  hills, 
that  spanned  space  and  the  free  air  from  the  lip  of 
the  rock  to  the  tops  of  the  trees  far  below,  into  whose 
green  screen  it  disappeared  to  fall  into  a  secret 
pool. 

They  had  flashed  past.  The  descending  water 
became  a  distant  murmur  that  merged  again  into 
the  murmur  of  the  bees  and  ceased.  Swayed  by  a 
common  impulse,  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"Oh,  Chris,  it  is  good  to  be  alive  .  .  .  and  to 
have  you  here  by  my  side!" 

He  answered  her  by  the  warm  light  in  his  eyes. 

All  things  tended  to  key  them  to  an  exquisite 
pitch  —  the  movement  of  their  bodies,  at  one  with 
the  moving  bodies  of  the  animals  beneath  them; 
the  gently  stimulated  blood  caressing  the  flesh 
through  and  through  with  the  soft  vigors  of  health ; 


PLANCHETTE  269 

the  warm  air  fanning  their  faces,  flowing  over  the 
skin  with  balmy  and  tonic  touch,  permeating  them 
and  bathing  them,  subtly,  with  faint,  sensuous 
delight;  and  the  beauty  of  the  world,  more  subtly 
still,  flowing  upon  them  and  bathing  them  in  the 
delight  that  is  of  the  spirit  and  is  personal  and  holy, 
that  is  inexpressible  yet  communicable  by  the  flash 
of  an  eye  and  the  dissolving  of  the  veils  of  the  soul. 

So  looked  they  at  each  other,  the  horses  bounding 
beneath  them,  the  spring  of  the  world  and  the 
spring  of  their  youth  astir  in  their  blood,  the  secret 
of  being  trembling  in  their  eyes  to  the  brink  of 
disclosure,  as  if  about  to  dispel,  with  one  magic 
word,  all  the  irks  and  riddles  of  existence. 

The  road  curved  before  them,  so  that  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  canyon  could  be  seen,  the  distant 
bed  of  it  towering  high  above  their  heads.  They 
were  rounding  the  curve,  leaning  toward  the  inside, 
gazing  before  them  at  the  swift-growing  picture. 
There  was  no  sound  of  warning.  She  heard  nothing, 
but  even  before  the  horse  went  down  she  experienced 
the  feeling  that  the  unison  of  the  two  leaping  animals 
was  broken.  She  turned  her  head,  and  so  quickly 
that  she  saw  Comanche  fall.  It  was  not  a  stumble 


270  PLANCHETTE 

nor  a  trip.     He  fell  as  though,  abruptly,   in    mid 
leap,  he  had  died  or  been  struck  a  stunning  blow 

And  in  that  moment  she  remembered  Planchette; 
it  seared  her  brain  as  a  lightning-flash  of  all-embrac 
ing  memory.  Her  horse  was  back  on  its  haunches, 
the  weight  of  her  body  on  the  reins;  but  her  head 
was  turned  and  her  eyes  were  on  the  falling  Co- 
manche.  He  struck  the  road-bed  squarely,  with! 
his  legs  loose  and  lifeless  beneath  him. 

It  all  occurred  in  one  of  those  age-long  seconds 
that    embrace    an    eternity    of    happening.     There  _ 
was  a  slight  but  perceptible  rebound  from  the  im-  I 
pact  of  Comanche's  body  with  the  earth.     The  vio 
lence  with  which  he  struck  forced  the  air  from  his 
great  lungs  in  an  audible  groan.     His  momentum  1 
swept  him  onward  and  over  the  edge.     The  weight  I 
of  the  rider  on  his  neck  turned  him  over  head  first 
as  he  pitched  to  the  fall. 

She  was  off  her  horse,  she  knew  not  how,  and  to 
the  edge.  Her  lover  was  out  of  the  saddle  and 
clear  of  Comanche,  though  held  to  the  animal  by 
his  right  foot,  which  was  caught  in  the  stirrup. 
The  slope  was  too  steep  for  them  to  come  to  a  stop. 
Earth  and  small  stones,  dislodged  by  their  struggles, 


PLANCHETTE 


271 


rere  rolling  down  with  them  and  before  them  in 
miniature  avalanche.  She  stood  very  quietly, 
lolding  one  hand  against  her  heart  and  gazing 
[own.  But  while  she  saw  the  real  happening,  in 
icr  eyes  was  also  the  vision  of  her  father  dealing 
:he  spectral  blow  that  had  smashed  Comanche  down 
in  mid-leap  and  sent  horse  and  rider  hurtling  over 
:he  edge. 

Beneath  horse  and  man  the  steep  terminated  in 
in  up-and-down  wall,  from  the  base  of  which,  in 
:urn,  a  second  slope  ran  down  to  a  second  wall. 
[A  third  slope  terminated  in  a  final  wall  that  based 
itself  on  the  canyon-bed  four  hundred  feet  beneath 
the  point  where  the  girl  stood  and  watched.  She 
'could  see  Chris  vainly  kicking  his  leg  to  free  the  foot 
from  the  trap  of  the  stirrup.  Comanche  fetched 
up  hard  against  an  out-jutting  point  of  rock.  For 
a  fraction  of  a  second  his  fall  was  stopped,  and  in 
the  slight  interval  the  man  managed  to  grip  hold 
of  a  young  shoot  of  manzanita.  Lute  saw  him 
complete  the  grip  with  his  other  hand.  Then 
Comanche's  fall  began  again.  She  saw  the  stirrup- 
strap  draw  taut,  then  her  lover's  body  and  arms. 
The  manzanita  shoot  yielded  its  roots,  and  horse 


272  PLANCHETTE 

and  man  plunged  over  the  edge  and  out  of 
sight. 

They  came  into  view  on  the  next  slope,  together 
and  rolling  over  and  over,  with  sometimes  the  man 
under  and  sometimes  the  horse.  Chris  no  longer 
struggled,  and  together  they  dashed  over  to  the  third 
slope.  Near  the  edge  of  the  final  wall,  Comanche 
lodged  on  a  hummock  of  stone.  He  lay  quietly, 
and  near  him,  still  attached  to  him  by  the  stirrup, 
face  downward,  lay  his  rider. 

"If  only  he  will  lie  quietly,"  Lute  breathed  aloud, 
her  mind  at  work  on  the  means  of  rescue. 

But  she  saw  Comanche  begin  to  struggle  again, 
and  clear  on  her  vision,  it  seemed,  was  the  spectral 
arm  of  her  father  clutching  the  reins  and  dragging 
the  animal  over.  Comanche  floundered  across  the 
hummock,  the  inert  body  following,  and  together, 
horse  and  man,  they  plunged  from  sight.  They 
did  not  appear  again.  They  had  fetched  bottom. 

Lute  looked  about  her.  She  stood  alone  on  the 
world.  Her  lover  was  gone.  There  was  naught  to 
show  of  his  existence,  save  the  marks  of  Comanche's 
hoofs  on  the  road  and  of  his  body  where  it  had  slid 
over  the  brink. 


PLANCHETTE  273 

"Chris!"  she  called  once,  and  twice;  but  she 
called  hopelessly. 

Out  of  the  depths,  on  the  windless  air,  arose  only 
the  murmur  of  bees  and  of  running  water. 

"Chris!"  she  called  yet  a  third  time,  and  sank 
slowly  down  in  the  dust  of  the  road. 

She  felt  the  touch  of  Dolly's  muzzle  on  her  arm, 
and  she  leaned  her  head  against  the  mare's  neck 
and  waited.  She  knew  not  why  she  waited,  nor  for 
what,  only  there  seemed  nothing  else  but  waiting 
left  for  her  to  do. 


WORKS  BY  JACK  LONDON 

WHITE    FANG 

With  Illustrations  and  Decorations  in  Color  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull 
Cloth  12mo  $1.50 

Mr.  London's  new  novel  is  the  biggest  and  most  elemental  book  of  its 
kind  that  has  appeared  since  "The  Call  of  the  Wild."  Its  theme  is  the  ex 
act  opposite  of  "  The  Call  of  the  Wild,"  —  the  gradual  taming  of  a  wolf,  from 
the  time  when  he  hovers  round  a  dog-sledge  in  the  frozen  north,  through  the 
long  months  of  his  gradual  adoption  of  the  ways  and  habits  of  man-animals. 
It  is  one  of  the  most  thrilling  and  dramatic  stories  that  Mr.  London  has  yet 
written. 


Tales  of  the   Fish   Patrol 

With  Illustrations  by  George  Varian 
Cloth  12mo  $1.50 

"  These  are  good  and  vigorous  stories,  made  yet  more  interesting  by  the 
fact  that  their  theme  is  comparatively  fresh  and  unfamiliar." 

—  Richmond  Times- Dispatch. 

"  That  they  are  vividly  told  hardly  need  be  said,  for  Jack  London  is  a  real 
ist  as  well  as  a  writer  of  thrilling  romances."  —  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

"They  are  good  stories  of  adventure  to  which  the  background  of  truth 
lends  additional  interest."  —  Toledo  Daily  Blade. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


WORKS  BY  JACK  LONDON 

THE  GAME 

A   TRANSCRIPT   FROM   REAL   LIFE 

With  illustrations  in  color  by  HENRY  HUTT 

Cloth  12mo  $1.50 

"  One  cannot  read  the  story  without  a  thrilling,  sympathetic  interest.  .  .  . 
The  story  is  done  with  such  a  fine  mingling  of  freedom  and  reserve,  in  lines  so 
bold  and  straight  and  simple,  that  it  storms  tb^  imagination  and  takes  it  unre 
sisting."  —  The  Louisville  Post. 

"  It  is  told  with  such  a  glow  of  imaginative  illusion,  with  such  intense  dra 
matic  vigor,  with  such  effective  audacity  of  phrase,  that  it  almost  seems  as  if  the 
author's  appeal  was  to  the  bodily  eye  as  much  as  to  the  inner  mentality,  and  that 
the  events  are  actually  happening  before  the  reader." —  The  New  York  Herald. 

"  The  narrative  is  the  perfection  of  art  as  a  sporting  story,  and  as  clear-cut 
and  virile  as  a  sculptor's  model  of  the  ideal  athlete." —  The  Boston  Herald. 


WAR  OF  THE  CLASSES 

Cloth  12mo  $1.50,  net 

Paper  I2mo  25  cents,  net 

"  Mr.  London's  book  is  thoroughly  interesting,  and  Mr.  London's  point  ot 
view  is,  as  may  be  surmised,  very  different  from  that  of  the  closet  theorist."  — 
Springfield  Republican. 

"  His  clear  and  incisive  thinking  arrests  attention  —  on  many  points  carries 
conviction — and  on  the  whole  illuminates  its  subject."  —  Chicago  Record- 
Herald. 

"  The  book  is  worth  thoughtful  consideration."  —  Congregationalist. 

"  The  statements  of  this  book  are  as  bare  and  bold  as  the  story  of  the  '  Sea- 
Wolf,'  and  present  the  socialists'  and  laborers'  side  of  the  economic  situation 
with  vigor,  clearness,  and  impressiveness."  —  The  Watchman. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

64-66  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York 


WORKS    BT    JACK    LONDON 
THE  SEA-WOLF 

With  illustrations  by  W.  J.  AYLWARD 
Cloth       12mo       $1.50 

"  '  The  Sea-Wolf,'  Jack  London's  latest  novel  of  adventure,  is  one 
that  every  reader  with  good  red  blood  in  his  veins  will  hail  with 
delight.  There  is  no  fumbling  of  the  trigger  here,  no  nervous  and 
uncertain  sighting  along  the  barrel,  but  the  quick  decisive  aim  and 
the  bull's-eye  every  time."  —  Mail  and  Express,  New  York. 

"Jack  London's  'The  Sea- Wolf  is  marvellously  truthful.  .  .  . 
Reading  it  through  at  a  sitting,  we  have  found  it  poignantly  interest 
ing  .  .  .  a  superb  piece  of  craftsmanship."  —  The  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Exciting,  original,  fascinating.  .  .  .  Novel  and  pleasing.  .  .  . 
So  original,  vivid,  and  daring  that  it  commands  attention." 

—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD 

With  illustrations  in  color  by  PHILIP  R.  GOODWIN  and  CHARLES 

LIVINGSTON  BULL 

Decorated  by  CHARLES  EDWARD  HOOPER 
Cloth        I2mo       $1.50 

"  A  big  story  in  sober  English  and  with  thorough  art  in  the  con 
struction  ;  a  wonderfully  perfect  bit  of  work ;  a  book  that  will  be 
heard  of.  The  dog's  adventures  are  as  exciting  as  any  man's  ex 
ploits  could  be,  and  Mr.  London's  workmanship  is  wholly  satisfy 
ing." —  The  New  York  Sun. 

"  Even  the  most  listless  reader  will  be  stirred  by  the  virile  force 
of  the  story,  the  strong,  sweeping  strokes  with  which  the  pictures  of 
the  northern  wilds  and  the  life  therein  are  painted  by  the  narrator, 
and  the  insight  given  into  the  soul  of  the  primitive  in  nature.  .  .  . 
More  than  that,  it  is  one  of  the  very  best  stories  of  the  year,  and  one 
that  will  not  be  forgotten."  —  The  Plain  Dealer,  Cleveland. 

"The  story  is  one  that  will  stir  the  blood  of  every  lover  of  a  life 
in  its  closest  relation  to  nature.  Whoever  loves  the  open  or  adven 
ture  for  its  own  sake  will  find  '  The  Call  of  the  Wild '  a  most  fasci 
nating  book." —  The  Brooklyn  Eagle. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK 


WORKS    ET    JACK    LONDON 


THE  FAITH  OF  MEN 

And  Other  Stories 
Cloth       12mo       $1.50 

"  Mr.  London's  art  as  a  story-teller  nowhere  manifests  itself  more 
strongly  than  in  the  swift,  dramatic  close  of  his  stories.  There  is  no 
hesitancy  or  unct-itainty  of  touch.  From  the  start  the  story  moves 
straight  to  the  inevitable  conclusion." —  Courier- Journal. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE  FROST 

With  illustrations  by  RAPHAEL  M.  REAY 
Cloth       12  mo       $1.50 

"  Told  with  something  of  that  same  vigorous  and  honest  manli 
ness  and  indifference  with  which  Mr.  Kipling  makes  unbegging  yet 
direct  and  unfailing  appeal  to  the  sympathy  of  his  reader." 

— Richmond  Dispatch. 

THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  ABYSS 

With  many  illustrations  from  photographs 
Cloth        12 mo       $1.50  net 

"  Mr.  London's  book  is  a  powerful  presentation  of  a  repellent 
theme,  but  it  is  well  that  thinking  men  should  know  the  facts  about 
these  horrors  —  hunger  and  filth  and  cold  and  suffering  —  that  they 
may  set  to  work  to  change  a  system  that  works  such  an  iniquity." 

—  Nashville  News. 

THE  KEMPTON-WACE  LETTERS 

By  JACK  LONDON  and  ANNA  STRUNSKY 
Cloth       12  mo       $1.50 

"  I  am  much  impressed  by  the  book  ...  it  is  an  entertaining, 
thought-compelling  work.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  it  became  a 
cla<  ,ic  on  the  subject  of  love." 

—  EDWIN  MARKHAM,  Westerleigh,  Staten  Island,  N.Y. 


THE    MACMILLAN     COMPANY 

64—66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 


TURN 


CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

202  Main  Library 


AN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405 
lonth  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books  to  Circulation  Dei 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


a5.CI8.KOV     477 

B  I  3  1980 

SENT  ON  ILL 

!.  CIR.  AUG  2  9  1973 

APR  3  0  1996 

MV251979 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 

E.CIR,    NOV21  197! 

APR  10  1997 

APR  WtffjP 

W  '<-  "' 

•  ' 
.n-Y 

_c,*^^c 

Ho^ 

c\** 

3V  04  1393 

I      'DlSCCiRC  A 

(GOV93 

)  DD  6    40m   10  '77 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELE 
BERKELEY,  CA  94720 


U.C.  BERKELEY 


